


The Gift

by Breath4Soul, notjustmom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Case Fic, Depressed John, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, It's For a Case, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes To The Rescue, Sweet Sherlock, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul, https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: When John comes back from war broken, a mysterious stranger that seems to know too much about him pulls him out of his depression and his bland life with an unusual gift.An alternative first meeting for John and Sherlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as an abandoned plot bunny for Breath4Soul who wrote Chapter 1 then got stuck. Notjustmom breathed new life into it when they gifted Breath4Soul chapter 2. The chapters will alternate between the two authors.

John doesn’t glance around the miserable little bedsit. He doesn’t look out the window at another dull, gray London day and a world that seems empty and lonely even though it is full of people. He washes and dresses with military precision, combs his hair, shaves, brushes his teeth and makes his bed in a mechanical stupor. He doesn’t drink his coffee or eat his apple for breakfast, though he goes through the ritual of setting it out. 

At last, he sits in his chair in front of his desk and feels the weight of his army issued revolver in his hand. The cold metal is warming to his palm. He stares up at the calendar pinned to his wall and the red circle around today’s date. 

Today is not special. It’s a _Tuesday._ Nothing good or especially memorable happens on a Tuesday. This unremarkable day is circled in blood red permanent marker because it is precisely 53 days from the time John first set foot on English soil again. He isn’t quite sure why he chose that number. It was just a random deadline that felt right at the time. 

He had told himself, that first evening in London (when he had circled this day on his newly purchased calendar) that if things weren’t better by then he would just get it done with. There was no use holding on, letting it linger, becoming another rotten piece of flesh walking around like a zombie and dragging down the rest of humanity. 

_**Things aren’t better.** _

He had watched the day approach with fear, dread and then a sort of eager anticipation. Now, it is just a relief to know it is going to be over soon. The pain is going to end. 

The plastic sheeting crinkles beneath his feet. He has been careful. Thoughtful, in a way. It won’t be pretty for whomever is unlucky enough to find him this way but at least he won’t leave a mess too difficult to clean up. 

_Wouldn’t want to be burden in death._

John moves his thumb to the safety. His hand is surprisingly steady and he is grateful for this. Can’t miss. Only one chance. They will hear the gunshot. He won’t have time for a second. 

He jumps and nearly drops the gun at the sound of three loud bangs on his front door. His heart, which had been steady, leaps into his throat, and he frantically throws the gun into the desk drawer, nearly slamming his own fingers in it with the rush to close it and hide away the evidence of what he is doing. 

He scrambles to his feet and stares at the door with a sudden flood of guilt. He had imagined this over and over but never imagined being interrupted - never imagined the shame of being caught in the middle of the act and having his efforts defeated. 

The pounding comes again; more insistent. John looks around his bedsit. There is nothing incriminating. Even the plastic sheeting had been purchased along with some paints and a ceramic so that no one would question what he was up to. He had been extremely careful and methodical. He had not altered his routine. He had done all the things he usually does and it had even felt a little less burdensome to do them because he had known that pretty soon he wouldn’t have to pretend any more. His therapist, Ella, had even thought him improving because he showed some optimism. He was looking forward... _but only as far as today._

He has been very careful. No one can possibly suspect his plan. 

_Just a coincidence then._  
_Shoo the person away and get back to it._

He marches to the door, then stops. With his head bowed, he gathers himself up to face another human being. His hand trembles as he runs it through his hair. He puffs out a breath and puts on his unfriendliest scowl as he wrenches open the door. 

Everything screeches to a halt when he gazes up into wide eyes as pale as snow-capped mountain peaks. They gaze back at him from a smooth porcelain face, with finely-sculpted, high cheek bones beneath a sea of dark brown curls. 

John blinks and blinks again, trying to dispel the vision. 

_“Felis silvestris catus,”_ rolls a deep voice; smooth like thick, expensive silk. The man’s stare is intense - invasive - as if there is nothing else in the world besides John. They stand there in silence, staring at each other, before John at last realises that the man has spoken.

“Sorry, _what?”_ John rasps. 

_“Felis silvestris catus._ A small, typically furry, carnivorous mammal frequently domesticated and kept as a pet. Commonly referred to as a _cat.”_ The man’s arms appear to be folded in front of him but as he speaks he holds out his arms a little to reveal a small black and white bundle of fur enclosed within his black, leather-gloved hands and huddled among the folds of the sleeves of the long wool coat he is wearing. It gives a pitiful meow in greeting. “Or, in juvenile form, a _kit-ten.”_ The man enunciates the term as if it is odd on his tongue, although his accent is all perfectly proper English, even a little posh. He takes another step forward, his arms still held forward, as if to offer the bundle to John. 

John shakes himself and looks down, trying to get a grip on the situation. He puts a hand up with his palms out.

“Sorry, that’s - that’s not my cat. Don’t own a cat.” He looks up from under his brow at the other man. “Try downstairs. 1C. I think they’ve one.” 

The man shakes his head, pressing his lips together, as if frustrated. He takes another small step forward, his voice dropping lower. 

“I am lead to believe that some find their companionship _quite pleasurable_ in their domesticated form. Though, it is uncertain how domesticated this particular specimen is...” The man tilts his head to the side. “He was born to a stray approximately 8 months ago and has been living without steady accommodation until such time as I rescued him from a tree approximately ten minutes ago. He had been chased there by a _canis familiaris_ \- dog. However, he is young and overtly affectionate. So I believe, with the proper care, he will quickly adapt to a domestic arrangement and become a suitable companion.”

John narrows his eyes at the man and tilts his head. “Oh.” He drops his gaze and rubs at the back of his neck. It has been a while since he has felt as if he is trying to translate from a foreign language into English while having a conversation “Oh, so, you’re...um... trying to find it a home?” John looks down at the kitten which has snuggled into the folds of the man’s sleeve and has started to doze. “That’s… nice. Really. But I’m not -” John reaches out to pet the cat and hears the man suck in a breath. He looks up into the man’s eyes and sees they have gone wide; a strange mix of nervous anticipation that John can’t quite parse. The man seems a bit like a skittish cat himself. John draws his hand back.

“Would you believe - I'm not much of a cat person?” John offers an ingratiating smile and a shrug to the man, hoping that will put an end to the discussion. 

To his surprise, the man shakes his head with an air of absolute certainty. “No, I would _not._ You do like dogs, but you admire cats for their independent nature, their intelligence, their distinctive personalities and because they are adept, solitary hunters, _yet_ choose to be social creatures. You value the loyalty and protectiveness of the dog, and its unconditional love has a place, but you prefer the affection of a cat precisely because it is a _rare commodity._ When a cat shows you affection, you feel as if you’ve _earned it_ \- like it comes from a place of mutual respect. You are a man that feels as if you have to earn love for it to be worthwhile and cats are not overly eager to trust or love... which suits you.”

John blinks at this surprisingly accurate and profound analysis from this stranger trying to get him to take in a stray kitten. He clears his throat and looks away.

“That was…” John smooths the hair on the back of his neck. “ _Amazing._ Yeah... that was amazing.” He ventures a glance at the man and those big, bright eyes are searching John. John looks away and brushes his fingers over his lips, fighting the urge to say more.

“Did I get anything wrong?” There is such a childlike eagerness to be correct underlying the man’s tone that John laughs a little. It is a sad sound coming from him, thin and weak from disuse, full of mirth, almost as if he is scorning the world for trying to amuse him. 

“Um…” John drops his hand and steps forward a little, looking up at the man with narrowed eyes. “D’I know you?”

“I have been around.” The man says in a careful way that makes John cock his head to the side, curious why he is saying it in _that_ tone.

“We’ve met before then?” John doesn’t remember that and he is quite certain he would recall an encounter with someone so memorable as this stranger. Especially if it had included randomly talking to him about a preference for cats. 

“ _Technically,_ no.”

John looks up at the stranger, waiting for him to explain but he just stares back, face unreadable. Something tickles at John's insides; a completely foreign small swell of intrigue and… well… something quite like _hope._ At last John clears his throat and looks back over his shoulder at the plastic sheeting on the floor.

“Sorry. Not a good choice for takin’ in a pet just now.” John tries to smile but it feels weak, transparent. He thinks that he can't even take care of himself, muchless be entrusted with another fragile life. “Sure he's a nice cat and all but... might be leaving soon,” he says and hopes it's close enough to the truth to pass.

 _“Kit-ten,”_ the man corrects, careful to articulate, as if John might be having as much trouble wrapping his tongue around this foreign term. “And quite resilient, really. Not much a bother. Minimal needs in terms of sustenance.” The man is hastily pushing the little ball of fur into John's hands.

“Um… wait… No-” 

The man is so insistent that John feels no choice but to accept the critter into his arms. It’s scrawny limbs feel so breakable beneath that fluffy fur, and John instinctively draws it closer into his chest in spite of wanting to hand it right back. The man is already stepping back out of the doorway. John steps after him into the hall.

“Um.. I really can't… Why don’t you keep him? He seems to have taken to you.” The man gives a small shake of his head. He has already shoved his hands in his pockets and straightened his spine.

“More of a dog person myself.” He wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated way and shakes his head back and forth as if the thought is ridiculous. He turns to walk away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by notjustmom

“Wait.” John isn’t sure why he spoke, he needs to know the man’s name, wants to know why he had appeared at just the moment he had, but he has nothing to offer him, he just doesn’t want him to disappear. “Your name?”

“Not important.”

“It is, to me.”

The man raises a dark, curious eyebrow at him and and his mouth quirks up a bit, nearly into a smile, but not quite. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Yes.”

“Friday night, Angelo’s, 8 o’clock.”

John blinks at him. “Friday night. Angelo’s, 8. Right. I’m John Watson.”

“I know.” And with a wink, he is gone.

John sighs and realises the cat, correction, the _‘kit-ten,’_ has crawled up onto his good shoulder and perched there, still quivering slightly, but has seemed to make a home there. He shakes his head and turns back to face his grey room, and knows he has just been saved by the two oddest angels he couldn’t have even imagined if someone had paid him to. 

_Saved, for what purpose?_

He doesn’t have a clue, but he has a kitten who needs food, a litter box, and probably a ball of yarn… and oh, yeah, he has _a date._

No, it wasn’t necessarily _a date,_ it might be dinner, or it might be nothing. 

_Or,_ he thinks, with a bit of a smile, _it could be the night when his life changes forever._ He glances around his room for a moment, then picks up the apple from his desk and takes a bite. He can’t remember the last time something tasted so good. He carefully lowers himself into his chair, so as to not disturb - _name, you need a name._

He freezes and looks at his left hand, unusually steady for once, as it suddenly occurs to him that if he gives the ball of fur that has fallen asleep on his shoulder a name, he will be responsible for it.

“Damn. He _knew.”_ John takes another bite of apple and is reminded how thin the line is between hope and despair. Moments ago there was nothing keeping him here, and now? Now, he needs to finish the apple, drink his coffee, and then make his way to the shops. _And then?_

He has to find a way out of this place and last until Friday night, somehow.

“Alright, _Percy._ Yeah, you look like a _Percy._ What am I gonna do with you? I can’t take you to the shops. Hmmm… I have that box, and that old jumper. That’ll do you until I get back... Yeah, I know, I talk to myself a lot. You’ll get used to it... or _not,_ I suppose.” He sighs, then detaches Percy from his shoulder and holds him carefully in his hands. “How did he know, Percy? Do you know?”

The kitten blinks at him, then stretches. He resettles into a ball of fur with a yawn, and goes back to sleep.

“Is it really that simple?” One moment he is less than a second away from ending his empty existence, and the next, by a dramatic turn of events, he is responsible for another life, and has a mission, to find the man who saved him.

**Friday, February 1, 8:01PM**

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone...”

“Dark, curly hair, green eyes, long coat and posh?”

_“Yes?”_

“Corner table, he’s been here waiting since 7:30, but I’m not supposed to tell you that.” He winks and helps John with his coat.

“You’re-?”

“I’m Angelo, and you are John Watson, and you are nearly two minutes late. I’ll bring your dinner out in a minute.”

“But -” He had been about to turn and remind Angelo that he hasn’t ordered anything when he spots the man from Tuesday glancing nervously out the window. John clears his throat and the man blinks at him and smiles, then rises from the table and walks over to him.

“John Watson. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. So glad you made it.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Holmes,” John says shifting his cane into his left hand and extending his right. 

“Sherlock, please.” As he takes John's hand in his own, he runs his eyes from John's bad leg up his body. When his eyes at last meet John's, there is a casual smile, but it's clear the wheels are turning behind those bright eyes. 

A flush of humiliation heats John. He hadn't used his cane when he'd answered the door for the strange man with a kitten tucked in his coat. He hadn't thought to reach for it throughout the entire whirlwind conversation either. 

No matter how perceptive he proved to be about John's preference for cats, Sherlock can't have known, from that brief encounter, just how broken the man he invited to dinner was. 

John braces himself for the inevitable rejection. As he slides into the booth seat, he takes a moment to settle, clearing his throat and straightening his jumper in an effort to give himself time to find the words that will give Sherlock an out - a way to walk away that will minimise the awkwardness and embarrassment for everyone involved.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

John snaps his eyes up to find Sherlock's pale gaze trained on him. He'd forgotten just how arresting the man's inquisitive stare could be. It takes him a moment to pull himself together and respond.

“Afghanistan,” John says, trying to keep all emotion out of his tone, although his heart is rapidly thumping in his chest. He watches Sherlock closely, the warm light from the candle flickering over the ethereal man's unreadable features. 

“How'd you-”

“It was obvious from the first moment I saw you. The tan, the haircut, the injury.” Sherlock jerks his chin towards John's shoulder. “The limp is, of course, confirmation. Psychosomatic. A soldier recently invalided home after a traumatic injury.”

All the breath leaves John at once and he feels his body sag against the seat, relaxing for the first time in months. Until this moment he hadn't realised that trying to hold these truths inside himself - to shamefully hide them away from the world - was like an anchor round his ankle pulling him down as he struggled to keep his head above water. Sherlock freed him from that burden so effortlessly - simply by _seeing him._

“That was… that was _amazing,”_ John says but his words are lost beneath the sound of the waiter arriving and sliding his dish onto the table. “Amazing,” John mutters, grinning down at his dish. 

He can't be sure if it is a side effect of his new, unburdened soul or if the food truly does smell that delicious, but he finds himself ravenously tucking into his ravioli dish, almost before the waiter has had time to say, 'Bon appetit,’ and move away.

He groans around an exquisite mouthful and lifts his eyes to Sherlock just in time to see him trying to be quick enough in turning his gaze away from John as to not get caught staring. He swallows, looking out the window behind John, one hand on the table, fidgeting, while the other rests on the back of the seat. He’s obviously trying very hard to hide the fact that he is as nervous as John feels. 

“Sorry, yours still coming... or... did you eat before?”

Sherlock gives a tight shake of his head, continuing to look out the window. “No. I don't indulge very often. Slows me down.”

“Mmm,” John nods. “Well, you've got to taste this - it's divine.” John snatches up Sherlock's unused fork and stabs a ravioli on his plate, holding it out to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock opens automatically. It all happens so fast and easily that, in the aftermath, they both are a little surprised.

“Oh,” Sherlock says blinking rapidly as he chews the ravioli. His eyes are darting over John with his brow furrowed, like John has just done something astounding and he's not altogether sure how to feel about it. “That is…” his stare drops to the food, then lifts back up to John. “Yes, _nice.”_

“Go on then, take whatever you'd like,” John says handing the fork over and pushing his plate to the space between them so Sherlock can more easily reach it. “It's more than I can eat myself anyhow.” 

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth in denial but fiddles with the fork, eyeing John's food with clear interest. 

John continues to eat, humming in appreciation over each mouthful. He only has to make a show of savouring a few more bites before Sherlock's fork quickly darts out and stabs a ravioli off the corner of the plate. John watches him eat it before he lets the grin steal over his face.

“What?” Sherlock says almost guiltily, fork already poised for another grab.

John snorts, shaking his head back and forth. “Percy - the kitten - bit of a finicky eater too. You'd think, living on the street for eight months, he'd be easy to please - eat anything he could get his little paws on - but I went through five different cat foods - the last two _'gourmet,'_ mind you - and he snubbed it all.” 

John spears a piece of pasta and points his chin towards the plate indicating Sherlock should do the same. Sherlock obliges, forking one of his own. John slowly moves the bite to his mouth, eyes locked on Sherlock's and Sherlock moves the food to his own mouth in mirror motion. John's gaze drops to Sherlock's lips as they both take the food into their mouths at the same time. There is a definite heat crackling between them, when he drags his gaze back up to Sherlock's eyes and finds him watching him with equal intensity. John clears his throat and let's his stare drop.

“Was worried he wouldn't eat at all but then he snuck up on the table and batted a beef tip off my plate at dinner. Ended up eating about a quarter of the meal. Seems he'll only eat what I eat, when I eat.”

“Well, cat ownership obviously suits you, John. You've put on three pounds since I've seen you last.”

“Oi,” John says with mock indignation, running a hand down the front of his jumper and straightening in his seat. “One and a half.” 

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at him but says nothing more. He's smiling, and John can tell he's genuinely pleased to see that John's in a better state than he was only a few days earlier. John feels like a changed man, honestly, and he's tremendously grateful for whatever magical force of the universe brought Sherlock and Percy to his door. He's never been good at saying such things, but he tries to let it show through his eyes as he smiles back. 

The moment stretches, soft and warm and bright. Sherlock doesn't look away and doesn't show any sign of discomfort at John's open and intimate expression. At last, John's tears his eyes away thinking that, if he's not careful, he's going to fall hard and fast for this mysterious stranger, Sherlock Holmes. After all, he hardly knows him.

“Right. Well... I could probably do with a few more, to be honest,” John says patting his stomach. As a doctor, he's well aware he's underweight, but he hadn't been able to muster more than a token effort to eat for the last few months, “And this is a good start.” He takes another bite and winks at Sherlock. 

Sherlock tips his head in concession and reaches for the bottle of wine. He fills both their glasses. “Ta,” John says and tips his glass towards Sherlock in a kind of toast before taking a sip. His mood is getting better by the moment.

“So. Are you in the habit of foisting stray kittens on ordinary blokes?” John says playfully after a few more bites and sips of wine.

“Mmm. Well, not the _ordinary_ ones.” Sherlock says with a dismissive gesture that indicates he's a bit annoyed by the suggestion. 

John doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing. After a comfortable stretch of silence, Sherlock at last breaches the quiet. 

“So, eating habits aside, how fares young… Percy, is it?”

“Yeah. Named him Percy…. Um...good. Good.” John scratches at his eyebrow with one finger. “Lost a decent jumper to him. Seems to think it's his, since I loaned it to him the first night.”

“Mm. Yes, well, as intelligent as cats are, he is just a _kitten_ and can hardly be expected to abide by human social constructs around property ownership and the concept of _loaning._ ”

John puts his hands up, his palms out in good-humoured surrender. “Right. No need to take his side. At the risk of being considered a complete pushover, I already conceded to his pathetic meows of protest when I tried to get it back.”

Sherlock smiles, as satisfied as if he'd won a jumper out of John rather than the kitten. John can't help but grin too, and takes a bite to hide it. His smile fades as he takes another bite and chews slowly, his thoughts growing sober. 

“‘Sides, I know he's had it rough,” he says quietly. “Like you said, had nothing and noone.” He doesn't have to say out loud that he is far too aware of what that kind of life is like - that it nearly killed him to have nothing and noone. He says it with a look, knowing Sherlock hears everything he can't say. “It's just a jumper.” He shrugs, trying to lighten the mood.

“So, I was correct in assuming he'd settle into domesticated life?”

John laughs. He can't help it. All the absurd, utterly inconceivable things that Percy has done floods into his mind. After almost a week of these antics, John is full to the brim with stories of his new feline friend’s eccentric but charming behaviour.

As they both pick at the food and sip wine, John tells Sherlock story after story about how Percy has got into a surprising amount mischief in their short time together. Percy is definitely an exercise in extremes. He can lay around in a sunbeam all day only to wake John in the wee hours of the morning to the crashing of glass beinging batted off the worktop to their demise. Some days he'll spend the whole morning hiding and other days he'll run around the flat like his tail's on fire, nearly climbing the walls from lack of stimulation. He'll completely ignore John for hours and then unexpectedly plop himself onto John's laptop while he's typing or cry at his feet until he's picked up and given what he deems sufficient attention. 

Throughout all John's stories is laced the love he's come to have for this little creature that Sherlock placed in his care.

“Yeah, so he's never boring,” John concludes with a grin.

“Which is what you prefer,” Sherlock puts in.

“Yeah. You had me pegged right on that. Prefer a bit of a challenge.” He looks up at Sherlock with a crooked smile. 

They've nearly finished the plate now and this… date, _or whatever it is,_ seems to be drawing to a close. John stabs the last piece on his side of the plate and runs it through the sauce to buy some time. They both know that they're going to have to show their hand soon and negotiate how (or _if)_ this moves forward.

Sherlock chews his bottom lip. His eyes narrow and sweep over John, as if he's trying to decide something. After a moment, he lets out a breath through his nose and goes in to spear his last bite. He pops it with his mouth and sets the fork down on the table with a new air of decisiveness.

“I've changed my mind.”

“About?”

“The cat.”

John freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth and stares. Sherlock is sitting stiffly now, his hand fidgeting with his own napkin and his eyes darting around, avoiding John's. It could be irritation or nervousness, John can't be sure.

“Sorry, what?”

“I had previously indicated I'd be opposed to living with a cat, but I have come to reconsider, in this particular case, that the experience may be… _intriguing.”_

“You want to live with a cat,” John says slowly as his mind fights the idea that Sherlock might be saying he wants to take Percy back. 

“It's only logical,” Sherlock’s words are accelerating rapidly, “I too keep odd hours, playing violin at all hours of the night and I've been known to volley between bouts of mania and lethargy. As you've indicated, your bedsit is insufficient for Percy's need to explore. I've my eye on a nice little place in a prime location, not too far from here. The space should be sufficient -”

John drops his fork. The loud clanking sound is sharp in the intimate restaurant. “My. Cat. You want _my_ cat?”

“Yes, I am willing to make accommodations to meet his needs. We should be able to afford the place together and since you are already experienced in such moods and mannerisms that he and I share, we should get along well as flatmates.”

John blinks, his mounting fury dying in a swirl of confusion. “We should… _flatmates?_ I'm sorry… who said anything about becoming _flatmates?”_

“I did,” Sherlock says a tentative smile pulling up one side of his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely compliments and encouragement.  
> This chapter was by Breath4Soul.  
> Tag, Notjustmom, you're it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by notjustmom❣️

John's hand spasms and he freezes as Sherlock covers it with his own larger one. Angelo arrives to remove their plate. "Dessert?"

"No -"

"Yes, your tiramisu."

"Of course." Angelo winks again and John glares at the candle. Sherlock removes his hand.

"I don't know a thing about you -" 

Sherlock sighs and rolls up his left shirt sleeve. John draws in his breath sharply as Sherlock stretches out his arm to him. He nods his head as John hesitantly reaches out to touch the evidence of Sherlock's recent (and long past) history. Then Sherlock yanks his sleeve down again and clears his throat. He leans back against his chair and closes his eyes.

"First time I saw you, was a month ago. You were sitting on a bench in the park. You had bought coffee, but you couldn't stand to be around other people. So, even though it was freezing, you walked to the park and sat for an hour because you couldn't bear to go back to your bedsit. Trust issues, I'd guess. Rubber band on your wrist is your way of refocusing your anger. You are afraid you are turning into your father -"

"Don't." John grits out through clenched teeth.

"Sorry. It's been more than a year since I've had a real case - since they've let me on an active crime scene -"

"Ah. Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock smiles as Angelo places an enormous bowl of tiramisu between them. He picks up his spoon and takes a bite, closing his eyes with a sigh. "Try it. I don't usually indulge, but it's one of the best things ever invented."

"So - I'm - what to you, exactly?" John asks tightly. Though, he uncrosses his arms and picks up the spoon, despite all of the alarms going off in his head. He takes a bite. "Wh - mmmmm... damn."

"A chance."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I -"

"I've been clean six months. Six months since I did enough verbal tap dancing to leave rehab. I didn't know why - I couldn't understand why I was still alive. I had spent months trying to - and I was finally on my way to meet up with my dealer when I saw you sitting on a bench. There wasn't a bright light from the heavens, or music - or any such nonsense, but there was something about you, something in your eyes, your body language - I don't know. There was an intelligence, a strength about you, that I don't see in most people. Perhaps you were trying to come to terms - maybe you still are - with why you survived when so many didn't? You feel useless since you can no longer practice or serve?" 

Sherlock closes his mouth and puts a finger to his lips. He mutters, mostly to himself, "I should have stopped talking ten minutes ago. I apologise. I'm not good with people, but you probably already got that. I thought... actually I'm not sure what I was thinking now. I've wasted your time, I'm afraid. Though, I am glad that you and Percy are a good match. At any rate, please stay and finish the dessert. It will hurt Angelo's feelings if the bowl isn't licked clean." Sherlock makes a move to get up and, against his better judgment, John reaches for his hand to stop him from leaving.

"Please. Wait." Sherlock eases back down into his chair and John pushes the bowl closer to him. "I can't possibly eat all this on my own. We don't want to disappoint Angelo after all the effort he went to." 

Sherlock hesitates, a bit wary now. John rolls his eyes. "Listen. After we finish, I'll come visit the flat, but I have to find something to take back for Percy. I haven't tried ravioli yet, but he's unusual, he might -." He stops and puts his spoon down. He mumbles under his breath, "I'm assuming I don't want to know how you _'determined'_ where I live?"

"Probably best if you don't know. Won't happen again."

John shakes his head, but laughs out loud. He runs his hand through his hair, then glances back at Sherlock who is grinning shyly at him. Clearly he is pleased with himself for succeeding in his odd mission, and John realises he is touched by the idea that someone - no, not just someone, but this exceptionally unique, if slightly damaged, man next to him - has spent his time thinking about him, worrying about his well-being, even if it was self-serving, in a way. He shrugs, then proceeds to fight Sherlock for the last few bites of dessert. If nothing else, he isn't bored any longer.

"Is this - am I an experiment?" John asks suddenly, surprising both of them.

"An experiment? No... perhaps more of a... _logic puzzle._ " At John's raised eyebrow, Sherlock looks a bit sheepish and nods. "I'm going to stop talking now." 

"No, it's fine. Really. Are you sure an unemployable surgeon and a neurotic cat aren't going to cramp your lifestyle?"

Sherlock shakes his head and says with a bit of a smirk, "I don't have enough of a lifestyle to cramp at this point. You, and your neurotic cat, are more than welcome."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Breath4Soul

“So, uh, where does the cat come into it?” John asks shifting his weight onto his cane and straightening his coat in an effort to appear casual. The potential outcomes of agreeing to go back to Sherlock’s flat late at night are starting to dawn on him and he is trying to keep a tight lid on all those thoughts. He looks towards the kitchen where Angelo is busy preparing a takeaway order of meatballs, which the restaurant owner insisted Percy would prefer.

“ _Kit-ten._ ” Sherlock corrects distractedly. He is standing beside John, his fingers swiping rapidly over his phone. Texting, it seems.

“Right,” John agrees, smiling at Sherlock’s quirkiness. “Kitten. So, you brought me a stray kitten… why?” He turns towards Sherlock.

“Mmm. Consolidation of corollary anomalities.” He smiles with satisfaction at his phone and then shoves it in his pocket, at last giving John his full attention. His keen eyes lock on John’s.

“I am in the business of noticing things, John.” He leans forward as he speaks quickly, intensely, as if it is of utmost importance. “But only relevant things. Only things that serve a purpose in my pursuits.”

“Pursuits?” John swallows and swipes his tongue over his lips that suddenly feel too dry. He is leaning to the side a little because their bodies are not quite aligned but Sherlock has stepped so close that John has to look up at him. 

“Solving crimes, mostly. As I said, I am a Consulting Detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me. I see what they can’t.”

“Ok,” John says slowly because it seems a bit incredible… and really doesn’t answer his question at all. He lets his eyes drop to Sherlock’s neck before pulling them up again. “What does that have to do with me and Percy?”

“Nothing. That’s the point.” Sherlock stares at John as if he surely must see what he is driving at but John can only blink up at him, completely lost. Sherlock steps closer and his voice drops lower, as if this is something very serious that must be kept between them. 

“Don’t you see? Everyone has filters, but I have worked to hone mine to a different standard. I have trained my mind to sift through the abundance of useless information it is bombarded with every moment of the day and only direct my attention to what is valuable. My brain, for lack of a better term, is _highly specialised._ Therefore, when I say that I noticed you, John, you must understand it for the extremely _anomalous_ event that it truly is. I should **not** have noticed you. I shouldn’t have noticed the kitten either, but something… _something_ …” He drifts off, eyes dropping as he seems to retreat into his mind to try to work it all out.

John feels like he is sweltering in his coat and jumper. He is not sure if it is their proximity to the kitchen, the heat of Sherlock’s body so close, or the fact that Sherlock is implying that John is something intriguing enough to warrant special interest, but he feels like a human inferno. He is staring at Sherlock’s downturned face - his dark lashes, his plump bottom lip being worried between his teeth, and he is beginning to feel like he needs to do something or - or -

“Here you are,” Angelo says bursting out of the kitchen with a bag full of their takeaway. “For you and your gattino.”

“Thank you.” John takes the bag.

“Angelo,” Sherlock says with a little tip of his head. 

John barely steps outside the door when it happens. He's turned to look back at Sherlock so he can ask him another question when someone hits him hard from behind. It feels like a shoulder slamming into his back. He stumbles, falling forward, everything dropping from his hands so he can catch himself against the wall. 

“Hey,” Sherlock shouts, and John turns in time to see a tall, thin man with a gray hooded coat shading his face grab the bag John dropped and dash off. Sherlock immediately runs after him and John is on his feet barreling after Sherlock before he has time for a second thought. 

The thief is obviously very familiar with the city and tries desperately to shake them. The chase takes them up staircases and through buildings. At one point John watches amazed as the mugger and then Sherlock, both taller than himself, leap across a gap between rooftops. John runs up to the edge and stops, looking down at his own feet on the edge. It's a brief flash of self-doubt - _or sanity._ But then he looks up and sees Sherlock.

“Come on, John. He’s getting away,” Sherlock shouts, stopping to look back at him. There is eagerness and urgency in Sherlock's face.

_Can’t let him down._

John backs up and takes a running jump at it. He is surprised when he lands easily on the other side. He is treated to a flash of Sherlock's smile before he turns and bounds off, long coat flapping like a cape behind him. The thief picks his way back down to the street using a fire escape, then runs through the alley headed for a main road. Up ahead John sees the robber cut left after exiting the alley but Sherlock, oddly, cuts right. 

“This way, John,” Sherlock shouts. John makes it to the street and starts to cut left, after the robber, but hears Sherlock shout again, “No, John. This way.” 

“Sorry.” John turns and runs after Sherlock, having to trust that the man knows what he’s doing. 

What Sherlock turns out to be doing is taking a clever shortcut to intercept the theif. A few more turns and they at last corner the hooded mugger in an alley that is fenced off on the other side. John has absolutely no idea where they are now, but his body is humming with adrenaline and the strain of the chase and he feels as invincible as he used to as a doctor and soldier, charging to the aid of a wounded comrade. 

“It’s over,” Sherlock says slowly. “Drop the bag.” The man looks around skittishly as Sherlock and John slowly move in. His back is to the fence and the only way out is through John and Sherlock.

“Fuck'off and leave m'lone,” the mugger spits. He sounds young. He’s crouching, obviously working his nerve up to make a run at them; trying to decide which one is his best chance of getting away. John straightens his spine and narrows his eyes, trying not to look like the weaker link here.

"That's not going to happen." Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out a badge, flipping it open briefly. “I’m NSY and he’s ex-military. Do you really like your chances?”

The mugger freezes. Hesitates a second - then tosses down the bag. “Take it.” He turns and runs, jumping on a tall bin, launching at the fence, and vaulting over it with a skill he hadn’t demonstrated in their long chase.

John gawks after him, but Sherlock simply steps forward and picks up the bag. He holds it out to John but John reaches out his other hand and catches Sherlock by the wrist. 

“Wait. They gave you a-”He's smiling, feeling breathless and euphoric from the run and the (altogether odd) victory. He lifts Sherlock’s hand and takes the badge from it, opens it, and studies it. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?" John narrows his eyes up at Sherlock, confused. 

“I pickpocket members of the NSY when they are being particularly annoying,” Sherlock says, waving a hand dismissively and glancing around. He takes the badge back and stuffs it in his pocket. 

John looks back at the fence, then at Sherlock and starts laughing. He can’t help it. 

Sherlock’s eyes snap to him, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?”

“Sorry - you just bluffed a mugger out of his snatch with a _stolen_ badge.”

“He wasn’t a very _good_ mugger.” Sherlock gives a shrug but he is grinning too now. “At least three women with purses on the street outside Angelo’s and he stole _your_ takeaway. Not the most brilliant of choices.” 

“Yeah, don't know what that makes us, then,” John says, continuing to chuckle as he takes the bag and peers inside. “We were the ones that knew what it was and still ran all over bloody London after him.” John shakes his head back and forth in disbelief, staring at the container within. "Christ, I jumped roofs for this."

Sherlock's grin widens. He looks at John a long moment, and his expression shifts. There's a sparkle in his eyes and a lovely flush to his cheeks. John stares back, and can't help but be enchanted, grinning just as widely. At last, Sherlock bites his lip, narrows his eyes for a second and then turns and starts walking.

“Yes, well,” he pulls his phone out, types something quickly, then shoves it back in his pocket. “Angelo's food is known throughout London to be delicious and we could hardly disappoint Percy, could we?” He glances over at John.

“Of course” John agrees, falling in beside him. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to be striding away from a showdown with a criminal, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. "Wouldn't dream of it."

They stroll side by side, cracking comments about the wild chase and the incompetent mugger. John is surprised to find that the twisting path of pursuit ended not too far from Sherlock’s flat on Baker Street. It is less than a fifteen minute walk. 

As they emerge from an alley in front of the flat John notices a familiar man on the stoop. 

“Sherlock. John Watson," Angelo greets them jovially. "Knew you'd prevail over quell ladro.” 

John smiles and nods and is about to ask why Angelo had come, when Angelo lifts his arm. John freezes, stunned over the familiar item in Angelo’s hand. It’s his cane. 

“Sherlock texted me. Said you dropped it outside,” he says tilting it towards John.

“Uh...Thank you. Thanks." John's throat feels too tight to say anything more as he takes it. 

As Angelo walks away, John stares wide-eyed at Sherlock who is unlocking the front door. 

_Sherlock cured his limp._  
_Just like that. All the pain - gone._

He may not be an angel (with his needle-poxed arms and a stolen badge in his pocket) but there is, without a doubt, something _magical_ about Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home sweet home...

It couldn't be that easy. Endless days, weeks and months of feeling displaced, and all it took was a chance, or not so chance meeting... 

"Hmm?" John realises Sherlock has said something to him and might be expecting an answer.

"I was just apologising about the stairs. There's one that creaks, just so you're aware."

"Oh. Right." John nods and slowly makes his way up after Sherlock, who is waiting for him to catch his breath before he opens the door, perhaps the entry way to a new life, a life where he could be of use once again. 

Sherlock clears his throat and John crosses the threshold and he can't help but smile. There is absolutely nothing grey or lifeless about this flat. It is as if he has gone back in time, if not for the laptop sitting on the desk, he might as well be in Victorian time; the rooms are full of the scent of old books, and a few other odours he isn't sure he wants identified. His new surroundings are as unique and spellbinding as the man who has brought him here, and as he takes another deep breath in, he knows somehow that he is finally, truly home for the first time in his life.

"Yes. Yes, I think Percy will find it quite acceptable."

"And yourself?" Sherlock asks, a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

John turns and looks at him, then walks over to the overstuffed chair and carefully lowers himself into it. "Yes, it will do quite nicely."

"Good. Very good." Sherlock seems unsure of what to do next. "Hmmm... perhaps. We should -"

"Woooo - hoooo! Oh, Sherlock, you have company, how nice!" 

Sherlock tries not to look pleased, but can't keep the grin from his face, as he makes the introductions. "Mrs. Martha Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson, he will be moving in... "

"Tonight, if that suits?" John adds quickly, then wonders at this impulsive decision, he's not someone who normally... well, since when have things been normal in his his life, really?

"Wonderful," nods Mrs. Hudson, acknowledging how Sherlock lets go of the breath he had been holding for a moment. At last, she smiles to herself.

"I was wondering, though, how you feel about cats?" John asks hopefully.

"Cats or cat in the singular?"

"Just one very singular kitten, from what I understand." Sherlock murmurs as he begins to walk around the sitting room, perhaps trying to see it through John's eyes, or Percy's and wondering if said kitten will find his new residence to his liking.

"Percy." John smiles at her, and she nods.

"Percy. A quality name. Yes, shall we send the married ones to pick up his things, Sherlock?"

"Uhm. No, I have very little, and Percy, he is quite particular about people..."

Sherlock stops pacing and catches John's eye. "Shall we then, I've put the meatballs in the fridge, on a safe shelf -"

"Safe shelf?" 

"Not to worry, dear, Sherlock takes every precaution, and with you and Percy, I'm sure he can soon dispose of his -"

"Off we go then, John, yes?"

"Uhm... yes, of course. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Hudson." He takes her hand in his and squeezes it lightly.

"Quite the gentleman; Sherlock - you could learn a thing or two, hmmm... yes, it was lovely to meet you, too, Dr. Watson."

"Please, call me John."

"John. Now you two hurry along before it gets too late, and the weather shifts again, it's been so changeable lately, as I was saying to Mrs. Turner - she has the married ones next door..."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John, warning him not to engage, or they face the real danger of entrapment by babbling landlady.

"Yes, we must dash if we want to get Percy settled, and I think I just heard thunder?"

"Right," Sherlock kisses her offered cheek, then strides over to the door and holds it open, waiting for John to join him. "We want to make it back before the storm hits." He winks at Mrs. Hudson who offers him a relieved smile. "No dusting tonight, Mrs. H, and leave my skull where he is."

"Yes, dear. Tea and scones in the morning? Don't get used to it, I'm your landlady -"

"Not our housekeeper..." Sherlock grumbles back, and offering her one more brilliantly satisfied smile, follows John down the steps, and into the night once again.


	7. Chapter 7

“You mentioned that Percy is particular about people,” Sherlock says after the cab begins weaving its way across the city to John’s bedsit. “Care to elaborate?”

John shifts in his seat, props his elbow on the door’s armrest and rubs his finger over his lips, stalling for time. It feels oddly inappropriate to relate this story to Sherlock, given the uncertain state of things between the two of them... _(He’s still not sure if they've just went on a date)._

Sherlock send to sense John's hesitancy. “On occasion, a variety of clients visit the flat. Percy's… _sensitivity_ … to such intrusions may be a concern,” he clarifies, his face placid but his fingers tapping impatiently where they are resting on his own thigh. 

“Right,” John says with a sigh of resignation. Sherlock deserves to know, in case history repeats itself. “Well, naturally one of my first concerns, as a doctor, was making sure Percy was in good health. So I got him into the vet the following day. They gave him a clean bill of health, which was good. Got his shots, which he was less than pleased about, but it was necessary. The receptionist there… she was… _nice_ … seemed friendly enough. She started chatting me up when I went to pay and...” 

John hesitates, shooting a sideways glance at Sherlock, but he finds that his face is neutral; unreadable. John drops his gaze to Sherlock’s hands fidgeting in his lap and proceeds. “Asked her out to coffee for the next day. Well, she asked me, really. Sort of one of those persistently cheerful people that can invite themselves anywhere. So, next day we meet for coffee and she’s… um... nice. _Fine,_ really.” 

John glances over at Sherlock again, who lifts an eyebrow as if to say he’s not impressed by John’s efforts at softening his criticisms. John ducks his head to rub at the back of his neck as he grapples with an appropriate way to explain the discomfort he felt with her. “She was… well, very high energy. Young. Too young for me, really. And...” _she wasn't you._ John presses his lips together and shrugs instead of letting that confession slip too soon.

“What does this have to do with your conclusion that Percy has specific preferences in people?” Sherlock asks, seeming more eager for the relevant information than anything else.

“Well, near the end of it I’d ran out of things to say so I fell back on talking about Percy. I mentioned that he seemed a bit groggy after his shots and she jumped all over that, inviting herself over to my flat to check on him. I tried to put her off but she was very concerned about him and, well, that made me a bit concerned about him too. I didn’t think there’d be any issue. Percy had seemed fine with her at the vet. He hadn’t, you know, been aggressive with her. Not with anybody, really. He'd just kind of seemed indifferent to her which, for a cat, amounts to a passing grade. But the moment she stepped in the door of my bedsit he was on high alert. He started hissing and all his hair stood up on his back.” John shakes his head back and forth, eyes wide with the remembered shock of it.

“I was ready to usher her right back out the door, but she was, you know, persistent. Seemed to think that because she likes all animals they _must_ all like her too. She said he’d settle down, but he didn’t. He started doing this… I don’t know… wild yowling deep in his throat - was actually pretty terrifying, even for as puny as he is.” John laughs a little, remembering the nearly demonic sound coming from that previously innocent and adorable little ball of fluff. 

“Yeah, whole thing was a mess. He didn't like her one bit and ended up giving her a nasty scratching when she wouldn't take the hint.” John runs a hand over his brow. “So… He's obviously got strong preferences.”

John now looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes but finds them distant and unfocused. At some point, Sherlock's hands had come up to steeple in front of his lips and the city lights outside crawl over his features; his expression fixed in deep thought. After a few moments, Sherlock lets out a breath, his hands drop to his lap and his focus returns to John.

“John, it is possible that, given the circumstances in which Percy was reared, he is very protective of his limited resources. Namely, _you._ Therefore, it may be that he will be equally aggressive towards anyone that he considers competition for your attention or affection.” 

John makes a sound of interest as he scratches at his eyebrow. He had never really considered that Percy may be possessive of him, but he supposes it makes sense, given what the little guy had been through. Who wouldn't fight tooth and nail to hold onto a good thing, once found?

Sherlock swallows, his back stiffens and his lips turn down in a frown as if he is stoically facing a very grim and damning possibility. “I should warn you, John, it is entirely possible that Percy will respond similarly to me.” He looks up at John and the lines of worry are clearly written all over his face. He obviously knows how much Percy means to John and is concerned that a similar rejection of himself by Percy might spell disaster for their agreement to live together. It's instinctive for John to reach over and reassuringly grip his forearm.

“It's alright. It's fine - _all fine._ Let's just see how it goes and we'll figure it out from there, yeah?” 

Sherlock studies him a moment and then gives a short nod. He turns to look out the window and John looks down at his own hand gripping Sherlock's arm. He decides to leave it there, enjoying that small bit of contact. 

As they travel on in silence, John watches the first raindrops from the storm trail down his own window, catching and inverting fragments of the London streets at night. He thinks about how his own life has turned on its head in only a few short days and about the two greatest catalysts for that wonderful change. 

He doesn't really know what he'll do if Percy rejects Sherlock but he's not giving up this wonderful new thing he’s found - not without a fight.

The pounding on the roof of the cab as they pull up to John's bedsit and the sky breaks open and gushes is nearly deafening. John thanks and pays the cabbie. Then he looks over at Sherlock lifting his eyebrows as if to ask if he is ready to brave the storm. Sherlock's lips curl into a smile, he flips the collar of his coat up so it frames his face and he gives a sharp nod of confirmation.

“Ready when you are, John.” 

John takes a moment to appreciate having someone so willing to plunge into the storm with him - actually thrilled at it, from the look on Sherlock’s face. Then he opens the door and runs through the torrential rain to his building, Sherlock right behind. There is a mad scramble to get in, both laughing as they are thoroughly soaked, then they are breathlessly bounding up the stairs to John’s floor. 

All the weeks prior to meeting Sherlock, the distance between the pavement and his own empty flat had seemed like an insufferable, beige death march but now he finds he can’t mind it at all. His heart swells and he can't help but grin at the thought of coming back to Percy with Sherlock at his side. John feels so far removed from that desperately lonely and forsaken man that greeted Sherlock in this hall for the first time but this feels just as monumental as that first meeting - this is his life coming together, all the pieces at last fitting.

They stop outside John’s door and John looks up at Sherlock. He is soaked, his brown curls clinging to his forehead and rivulets of water tracing paths down his cheeks to drip off his chin into the collar of his belstaff. Somehow it makes him seem purer, rawer, stripped down to his essence by the rain. There is nothing but those sharp eyes and lips that wobble been a grin and a worried frown. 

Sherlock searches his face and lets a soft, genuine smile spread over his features and spark in his eyes. "Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more,” he says quietly.

John nods and opens the door.

_____________________________________

John steps inside the room and Sherlock follows, a tall, lanky shadow, lingering behind him. As John moves further into the small space, he glances around at the meagre furnishings that had come with the flat for any sign of Percy. He is surprised Percy isn't there to greet them. It is rare to not open the door to find him sitting, waiting, as if he had heard John coming from a block away or has been sitting there all along. 

John makes the repetitive trilling sound in his throat that he has learned Percy responds best to. A pleased little _‘merrrrow,’_ comes in response at the same time that a familiar little black and white head pops up in the seat in front of the desk. Percy is curled into a ball atop that jumper that had been previously John’s, but now Percy has claimed.

“Oh, there you are, love,” John says softly, moving over to lavish some attention on the kitten. “Glad to see you haven’t been up to too much mischief while I was gone.” Bright blue eyes blink groggily up at John as he scratches Percy's little head. It is only large enough for two of John's fingers to fit in the space between its ears. The kitten pushes up into the touch, a low rumbling purr issuing from its throat. John gets lost in enjoying watching the little kitten relish his attention until he hears the quiet shush of Sherlock moving behind him and is reminded he isn't alone.

“We've got company, Perc. Remember him?” John steps aside so that Percy can see Sherlock. For a second he is confused and then his cheeks heat. Sherlock is standing there with his hands folded behind his back but his face is turned down and he looks… _flustered._ There is a soft pink that has spread up his throat to his cheeks. It occurs to John that he must look quite silly chattering away to a cat, and Sherlock is likely embarrassed on his behalf.

“He just - uh - just seems to like the sound of someone's voice.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says quietly, regaining his poise. He lifts his eyes to the kitten. “Percy,” Sherlock says with a little nod, as respectfully as if he is meeting the queen. He may just be humouring John by addressing the kitten directly but John can’t stop the grin that spreads over his face anyhow.

Percy simply blinks at Sherlock and makes another quiet, 'merrrow,' then bats at John’s hand that had moved away from scratching him. John lets out a sigh of relief that there is no hissing and wild yowling. 

“See, all fine. Passing grade,” John says to Sherlock with a grin as he gives into the kitten’s demands and runs his fingers down the length of its back. Percy’s whole body moves in a wave, chasing the touch. 

“Now, I’m going to go get out our suitcase and pack us up, love. Dinner’s waiting for you at our new home,” John says softly to the kitten. 

He turns to head for the back closet and sees that Sherlock has his face turned down again, no doubt in an effort to hide that his cheeks are flushed pink. He’ll just have to get used to John’s habit of speaking so tenderly to the little kitten because John has no intention of stopping. Infact, he quite enjoys that it, for some reason, has the added bonus of making Sherlock all flustered.

“Be back in a mo’”

John opens the closet and pulls out his suitcase and duffle bag. He carefully unloads the contents of his closet into the suitcase. As he does so, he keeps an ear perked for any sound of trouble between his precocious cat and his equally precocious new flatmate. 

After a few minutes he hears the quiet murmur of Sherlock’s voice and smiles to himself. Apparently, he won’t be the _only one_ talking to Percy. John can’t quite make out what is being said but it sounds rather like a typical conversation, with its back and forth, except one end is carried by the rolling meows of a kitten. 

Once John has packed all his clothes and the contents of the bathroom, he quietly steps into the main room and peeks around the corner at Sherlock and Percy. What he sees almost makes him burst into laughter. Sherlock is sitting on John's bed, braced on his hands out behind himself and leaning so far back he is almost lying down. Percy is standing on the middle of Sherlocks chest, neck craning his little head up towards Sherlock’s face. 

“I’m not sure of the purpose of this,” Sherlock murmurs, doing nothing to restrain the kitten but trying to lean his face back out of reach as the cat progresses up his chest. Percy gives a little entreating mewl. John knows precisely what Percy is trying to do but it makes quite the humourous image so he just watches for a moment. 

“Nose bump,” John says as he crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. Two pairs of sharp, intelligent eyes turn on him and Percy leaps off of Sherlock’s chest and bounds across the bed towards John.

“What?” Sherlock says righting himself with a flicker of relief. 

“Um… _nose bump._ Kind of like an eskimo kiss - where you rub noses together. He likes to bump noses.” John steps to the foot of the bed and scoops up the kitten, holding it a short distance in front of his own face. Percy extends his neck and taps his little nose against John’s nose twice, then runs his cheek along John’s chin with a satisfied purr.

“He was trying to… _kiss me?_ ” Sherlock asks slowly, brow furrowed in apparent disbelief. 

“Yeah. In a way,” John agrees, letting Percy cuddle against his shoulder. He thinks that he can't really blame Percy for trying. He'd like to give it a go himself if he knew it wouldn't be similarly rejected. “You did save his life,” John adds, looking from the little fur ball against his chest to Sherlock. 

“I simply fetched him from a tree,” Sherlock insists with a dismissive flick of his wrist, still seeming off kilter by the whole situation.

“Don't think he sees it that way.” John holds Sherlock's stare and something warm and intense starts to build in the air between them. Then Sherlock presses his lips together and his eyes flick away as he gets to his feet.

“I think you're over estimating the higher reasoning skills of a kitten.”

“Maybe,” John agrees nonchalantly but his smile clearly says that he doesn't agree. “Grab my RMAC mug and anything you think we'd need from the kitchen, will ya?” John says moving to put Percy back in his jumper nest. “And I'll finish up in here.” Sherlock nods and heads for the kitchen. 

Once he's out of sight, John takes his gun from the drawer and holds it for a moment. He hadn't handled it since he threw it in the drawer guiltily when Sherlock knocked on the door that first time they'd met. Though he now doubts that Sherlock will every admit it, he had saved John that day, in more ways than just preventing him from taking his own life. He had, in essence, given John a life that seemed worth living - brimming with new possibilities.

John unloads the chamber and puts the gun and the spare clips into his duffle, shoving his laptop and pillows in on top of it.

15 more minutes and everything John cares to take is packed and they are leaving John's bedsit for the last time. With a duffle bag, a suitcase and a sleeping ball of fluff cuddled in his (John's) jumper in his carrier, they emerge from the building to find the storm has passed, leaving the city washed clean and its lights gleaming on every slick surface. 

Sherlock hails a cab and they both crowd inside. As they roll away, John looks over at Sherlock and a smile blooms slowly on both their faces. A warm feeling of contentment settles over John. This feels right. It's mad and maybe a little dangerous to move so fast but it feels like the beginning of something wonderful - a new life for them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Breath4Soul


	8. Chapter 8

After a surprisingly uneventful journey back to Baker Street, John places Percy's carrier on the floor between the two chairs and opens it, allowing Percy to emerge in his own time to explore his new surroundings. John settles into his chair and breathes out a sigh of not just relief, but actual contentment.

"Tea?" Sherlock suggests as he places John's bags next to the couch and heads into the kitchen.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Tea sounds good." He watches as Percy leaps into Sherlock's chair, curls up and promptly falls asleep. "Seems Percy has taken ownership of your chair, already." He turns to look at Sherlock, and is caught short by the domesticity of it all. He has been so alone, in all the ways one can be so, and now, there is a brilliant, gorgeous man making tea for him in their, _their_ kitchen.

Sherlock brings him his mug, then rolls his eyes at Percy, at home in his chair, then picks up his violin and bow and begins to play. It's something familiar and yet John knows he hasn't ever heard it before; he puts his tea down, closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.

"John."

"Hmm? Wha-?"

"Your room is made up, you might sleep better in a bed, than that chair, as comfortable as it is. Percy is already up there, making himself at home."

"Right. Sorry. I didn't - uhm -?"

"No. No nightmare tonight, I just didn't want you to wake up with a sore shoulder. I don't sleep often, but I've fallen asleep in my own chair enough to know it's not worth it."

John searches Sherlock's face for any telltale signs of fabrication, finding none, he nods and slowly gets to his feet, blushing slightly as he realises he has taken Sherlock's arm for support. "Sorry, again."

"No need." John can hear the slight hitch in Sherlock's voice, and tries not to smile, as Sherlock turns away and picks up the violin and begins to play again.

"See you in the morning, then." He picks up his mug and carries it into the kitchen, then makes his way upstairs to his room, and closes the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

When John comes trotting down the stairs the next morning, having had one of the most restful sleeps he's had in a great while, he finds someone _other than_ Sherlock standing in the middle of their sitting room. The man is tall, thin, dressed in a fine suit and leaning on his umbrella as casually as if he'd been fully content to wait an age for someone to find him there. 

As John enters and freezes, confused by the intrusion, the man's hard-edged gaze sweeps over John from his bare feet to his sleep-mussed hair. His expression clearly shows he is less than impressed as he tilts his chin up and looks down his nose at John.

 _‘Must be one of those_ clients _Sherlock had been talking about,’_ John thinks as he wraps his dressing gown tighter around his old t-shirt and loose cotton shorts, and tries to run his fingers through his hair to tame it. 

“Sorry… uh… Sherlock is-” John glances around for any sign of his flatmate and finds nothing to indicate where he's gone off to.

“He's out,” the man states flatly. “However, I'm not here for _him._ Have a seat, John.” The man indicates the chair by the fireplace with a flick of his umbrella. 

John straightens and sets his shoulders, put on alert by this stranger who knows his name and had apparently come seeking John at 221B when John didn't even know he'd be moving in at this time yesterday morning.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“Captain Doctor John H. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s Hospital. We have not met previously, but I assure you that I'm very much aware of who you are.” The man gestures at the seat again, his words a little sterner; almost like a command. “The leg must be bothering you, have a seat, John.” 

“Actually, it's not and I prefer to stand,” John retorts, growing unsettled by this extremely knowledgeable interloper. “Who are you, then?”

“Consider me a... _concerned observer._ Not unlike Sherlock himself.”

“What does that mean?” 

“It means that Sherlock concerns me and so I keep a weathered eye on him.”

John takes two steps forward, fingers clenching into fists at the sinking suspicion that this man is dangerous to Sherlock.

“And is he aware of your… _concern?”_

“More or less.” The man's smile is more like a grimace. “The less the better, I'm afraid. Hence, why I've arrange this little tête-à-tête.” The man twirls his umbrella for a moment, lips pursed in thought as he once again looks John over, measuring him. “What is your relationship to Sherlock?” He asks at last.

John blinks, surprised by the question. “We're flatmates. Hardly know him besides that.” 

The man lifts an eyebrow. “Yet, he has been watching you for months.” As he speaks, he looks down at his own tapping umbrella and moves towards Sherlock's seat in front of the fireplace. “And now, within the span of twenty four hours, you've had a dinner date, chased down a criminal and moved in together.” He stops in front of the leather chair and looks up at John. “Shall we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” 

John steps forward and glares at the man. “I don't think that is any of your business.”

“It could be.” The man lowers himself into the chair and lets his umbrella rest against his thigh as he reaches into his breast pocket to pull out a checkbook.

“I really don't think it could,” John grits out.

“You are not a rich man, John. I could-” John sees it coming only a split second before it happens. Two little black paws shoot out from under the chair the man is seated in and, with lightning speed capture the man's ankle. The moment the claws sink in to his sensitive skin, the man shoots up out the chair with an undignified squeal of alarm and tries to scramble away, nearly toppling the opposite chair. 

He whips around to see what had attacked him only to be witness to two black paws pulling his umbrella, which had clattered to the floor, back underneath the chair like a spider reeling its prey back into its den.

The man scrambles after his umbrella, snagging the handle before it disappears completely. He tries to wrench it free but Percy has a good hold on it now. This is the point at which Sherlock comes pounding up the stairs, several muscular men in dark suits with military cuts on his heels. 

“I'm sorry, sir,” the large bloke grabbing at Sherlock's arm says to the man who's lost his umbrella as they tumble into the room. “He apparently took some subversive route to get here. We didn't see him coming.”

“I should have known that even New Scotland Yard isn't that incompetent as to misplace key evidence right before the Forsiny trial,” Sherlock says shaking off the large man's grip and charging towards the man in the fine suit. “What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?”

The man in the suit, Mycroft, seems to have pulled himself together now. He gives a nod to the large, military bloke, which seems to be a dismissal. The man immediately turns and leaves. Then Mycroft turns a cool smile on Sherlock.

“As ever, I'm concerned about you and the… characters you choose to associate with.” He glances back at the chair. “Still taking in strays, I see. How very altruistic… though that's never really your motivation, is it?” His eyes swing around to John.

“Yes, I can see your concern,” Sherlock says swiping up Mycroft's cheque book off the floor and tossing it at him hard enough that Mycroft makes a little grunt as he catches it against his own stomach. “It's none of your business.”

“Always so aggressive.” Mycroft lifts his chin, tucking the booklet away in his breast pocket. He takes a few steps towards the door. “You know your... _weakness_ for the rough and hard luck can be your undoing, brother mine.”

John frowns “Wait… brother? He’s your brother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says turning to John. “This is my brother, Mycroft.” Sherlock turns back on Mycroft, fixing him with a look of disgust and complete contempt. “Don't you have better things to do, being that you are the British government - that is, when you're not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis?”

John stares at the man in amazement.

“For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft sighs but he is moving towards the door, apparently abandoning any hope of recovering his umbrella with any dignity.

“And a major pain in my arse,” Sherlock growls as he ushers him out the door. “Good day, Mycroft. Try not to let the door hit you on your ever expanding rear end on the way out.”

With that, he slams the door and whirls around on John. Surprisingly, he's grinning and briming with energy. John smiles back naturally and then comes over a bit bashful as he realises he's still standing there in his sleep clothes

“Um. We might owe your brother an umbrella,” John says gesturing towards the chair because he can't take Sherlock's warm stare on him a moment longer. “Percy sort of stole it and I think he is currently mauling it under your chair.”

“Did he?” Sherlock's voice is full of satisfaction and is on the edge of laughter. “Great instincts, that.”

Their eyes meet and they both burst into laughter. 

“Yeah,” John says through the giggles, “ You should have seen the look- the look - his face when-” John breaks off, laughter overtaking his effort to recount what happened. His laughter and attempts to explain the incident seems to feed Sherlock's laughter until they both end up leaning their backs against the sitting room door, side by side, laughing until their sides hurt and their eyes are watering.

John can't help but wonder if every day is going to be this wonderfully ridiculous. He can only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breath4Soul chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'Speckled Blonde' case, I referenced John's blog, with a twist of ACD's Speckled Band...

The next two days go relatively peacefully, as John and Percy adjust to living at Baker Street. Percy finds interesting perches from which he seems to keep a vigilant eye over its occupants, while John rediscovers his passion for baking, much to Sherlock's amusement and obvious delight.

"Gingernuts?"

"Just wait a minute, they are just out of the -"

"Ouch!"

"-oven." John rolls his eyes as Sherlock pops the biscuit in his mouth, but freezes as he hears the buzzer ring once.

"Client, John, we have a client."

Helen Stoner appears to be the perfect client; obviously well-off (though Sherlock has never given a thought to a client's worth, unless a lack of funds or abrupt change in fortune for the better gave a clue to the solution), she is articulate, concise with her answers, and if Percy's attentions are a clear indication of anything, she is a cat person of unusual honesty. But John can see the dark circles under her eyes, and that any slight noise in the flat or out in the street makes her flinch just enough to be noticeable. The young woman is clearly terrified of something.

"Ms. Stoner. Your sister's death was a surprise to you?" Sherlock asks her quietly.

"Oh, yes. She had been having trouble sleeping, but there had been no indication of anything that would have caused her to simply die in her sleep. She was to have been married soon -"

"Her fiance?"

"He's devastated, naturally -"

"But?" Sherlock encourages her lightly, and she manages a reluctant half-smile. "You are perceptive -"

"To a fault, I'm told at times."

"He is a bit odd."

"How so?"

"He keeps snakes."

"Snakes?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John, then turns his gaze back to the client. "Is there any chance we could examine the body? I do apologise if I offend -"

"No, I quite understand. I was given your name by Ms. Molly Hooper. She is an old classmate, knew my sister slightly and she thought the case might pique your interest. She has arranged it so Julia's body will be delivered to Bart's for a brief examination -"

"When?" Sherlock rises quickly from his chair, annoying Percy enough to make him leap from Helen's lap to the arm of John's chair. "Apologies, Percy."

Helen looks down at her watch. "It should be arriving there in the next few minutes."

Sherlock nods at her, then at John. "Ms. Stoner. We will be in touch. You are staying in town tonight?"

"Yes, but -"

"A wise choice. Good day."

If she is put off in the slightest, it doesn't show in her face, as she makes her brief farewells. As the street level door bangs closed, John is astonished by Sherlock's transformation as his flatmate leaps from his chair, the brightest of grins brightens and softens his sharp features.

"John! A truly unique case; possible poisoning by snakes or-"

A single buzz at the door silences him, and soon Mrs. Hudson shows an obviously perturbed young man into the flat.

"Mr. Armitage?"

Sherlock's pronouncement stops him short. "Yes - how on earth -?"

"I had seen the announcement of your engagement a few weeks' previously. I am sorry for your loss."

"I want to know why Helen was here."

The older man's bluster is no match for Sherlock's calm, but icy demeanor. "I don't believe it to be any of your business, Mr. Armitage."

"But - I'm innocent, I loved Julia, Mr. Holmes. Please, I didn't do it -" He suddenly drops into the chair Ms. Stoner had just recently occupied and buries his face in his hands. "My snakes had nothing to do with it. I swear!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellows out, John is sure he can be heard down the block, but no matter, Mrs. Hudson appears, unflustered as ever. "Please give this man some tea. John and I must depart. The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock leaps from his chair, then looks back at John. "John, come. The body awaits us. I need your expert advice."

John blinks at Percy, who chooses to leap onto a space on a nearby bookshelf, just big enough for him to settle onto, and he curls up, soon fast asleep. 

The game is indeed _'on',_ as Sherlock has grabbed their coats and is halfway down the steps, already. "John!"

John can only follow, after a bit of an apology to Mrs. Hudson and the still teary-eyed non-client.

"I'm right behind you!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Breath4Soul

Julia Stoner bears a disturbing resemblance to her younger sister, John thinks as he stands in parade rest a respectful distance from the autopsy table. His hands are clasped behind his back as his eyes study Julia's face, the only area not littered with red dots. She looks almost... _peaceful._

“Died in her sleep,” Sherlock murmurs, as if reading his thoughts.

“Right.” John blinks off his surprise over Sherlock's perceptiveness. His gaze is now focused on Sherlock who is carefully inspecting the corpse; his chestnut curls falling over his sharply perceptive eyes, hands moving quickly and precisely. He's obviously in his element here.

John, however, is not altogether sure what he's doing here now. He'd helped chase down the criminal that stole his takeaway out of instinct but this - this is different. This is a _murder._ He's no consulting detective, like Sherlock. Nor a specialist registrar, like the young woman, Molly Hooper, who hadn't even questioned John's presence at Sherlock's side when they'd shown up at Bart's morgue demanding to see Julia's body. 

John clears his throat and looks at the wall, running over the way they'd ended up here. Had Sherlock actually wanted him to come or-?

“John, come over here.”

John's gaze snaps back to Sherlock. “Me?” 

“Yes, of course. You are a medical professional, are you not?” They lock eyes for a moment, then John steps forward.

“Right. Yes, I am - er- _was_ … but she's _dead._ ”

“Don't be ridiculous, John. You obviously possess all the necessary expertise and skills, undoubtedly exceeding that of more than half the idiots in this hospital.” Sherlock is leaning down over the corpse, not even looking at John, which John is grateful for because he can't quite think of anything to say or a proper way to react to this twisted compliment.

After a moment of John not moving, Sherlock looks up. His leaning position has brought him closer to John, his voice is lower, more intimate, and his eyes are full of mischief. “Obviously she's _dead,_ but I was hoping you'd go deeper.”

Teasing? Certainly.  
Flirting?... _Perhaps._

John holds down a grin, but not by much. “Right. Well, _dead_ isn't really my area. In general, if they're dead, I've failed at my job as a doctor.”

“Dead. Alive.” He shrugs. “You were an army doctor. Seen a lot of injuries and odd illnesses. I am sure your knowledge is transferable.” Sherlock tips his head towards the body between them. “What do you think?”

John pulls on some gloves and does a quick inspection, checking for injury, noting the pooling of her blood and taking a closer look at the odd spots.

“Um. Red speckles from her neck down - could be a rash. Possible allergic reaction. She was lying on her back for the hours following her death - blood has pooled there. No signs of other injuries or obvious wounds. No obvious cause of death.”

“No?” Sherlock lifts his eyebrows.

“No.” John asserts but he is mentally reviewing what he'd said for any errors.

Sherlock steps down to the end of the table and flips back the sheet. “Check her feet.”

John moves down and inspects the spotted feet. Above her ankle on the right side he sees two small puncture holes about 3cm apart. “Injection sites?”

“Or a bite.” Sherlock's eyes sparkle with the thrill of the possibility.

“A snake bite," John agrees with a nod, remembering the strange fiancee that keeps snakes. There's a thrill in knowing they’re closing in on the killer's trail now.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock pulls his gloves off. “Molly, you'll text me when toxicology comes in,” he says heading for the door. “Be sure they check for traces of venom of local deadly snake species.”

“Of course.” Molly tucks her hair behind her ear and looks up at him from her desk where she is completing paperwork.“Oh. There's… um… not a snake on the loose, is there?” She asks glancing around with wide eyes.

“We shall see.” Sherlock sweeps out of the room and John hustles after him, shedding his gloves into the biohazard bin as he goes.

Sherlock types into his mobile and scrolls through something as they stride down the hall and enter the elevator. He is intensely focused on his screen. They step out onto the kerb and Sherlock at last peels his eyes off of his phone to hail a cab. John takes the opportunity to ask where they are going.

“Crime scene, John. Julia was found dead in her own bed according to the record.”

“So, she was bitten by the fiance's snake while she slept in her bed at night?”

“One might assume.”

A cab pulls up and Sherlock opens the door. John slides in and Sherlock follows. Sherlock tells the cabbie the address. As the cab pulls away from Bart's and weaves back out into traffic, Sherlock turns to John, his brow furrowed and creased with irritation. “There's something - something eluding me. Something doesn't fit.” He is distant a moment, apparently lost in thought. After a few moments, he takes a deep breath and his eyes meet John's again, sharp and full of determination.

"We must follow the evidence. We eliminate all other possibilities until whatever remains, however improbable, is the incontrovertible truth. If Julia Stoner was indeed killed by a snake bite we must first secure proof that it was the fiance's snake and not, by some unfortunate coincidence, another snake that escaped a different owner. Hence why I was just checking for any reports of a missing poisonous snakes by local zoos, pet shops or owners,” Sherlock says holding up his phone.

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Which means a snake belonging to the fiance is looking like a strong possibility. Next, we must prove that this was not accidental - that the snake could not have escaped without the fiance’s knowledge and made it to her bedroom and onto her bed to bite her in the night of its own accord.”

“And how do you plan to prove that?”

Sherlock merely lifts his eyebrow at John. He rubs his finger over his bottom lip thoughtfully and turns away to look out the window. He doesn't saying anything more for rest of the journey.

John tries to fight a prickly sense of danger as he stares out his own window.

_________________

Julia's home appears to be a simple, quaint Victorian townhome in the quiet Southwest neighbourhood of Balham. When John and Sherlock ring the doorbell a handsome, if disheveled, middle-aged man greets them.

“Ah, you must be Julia's father, Doctor Roylott.”

“Julia, yes,” Dr. Roylott says rubbing at his brow, his hand visibly shaking. “Yes. Can I help you?” Bleary eyes squint at them.

Sherlock transforms before John's eyes, somehow becoming softer and… _more human._ His voice is less sharp and now suddenly replete with shock and grief. “Oh, we'd heard about her passing. Awful. Awful. Can we come in?”

“Friends of hers, then?” Dr. Roylott says, sighing and glancing around. He looks tired, overwrought, and as if entertaining guests is the last thing he wants to do. 

“Just for a bit to chat about her,” Sherlock presses. John would gape at Sherlock if it wouldn't give the whole game away. Sherlock is obviously a very good actor - neither confirming nor denying Dr. Roylott's misconception and now staring up at the other man with wide, glassy eyes.

“Right,” Dr. Roylott says with a resigned air that makes John wonder if they are the first or fiftieth “friend” to stop by to offer condolences. He leans heavily against the door as he pulls it open and waves John and Sherlock inside. 

“We were shocked when we learned of Julia's death, really. I mean she was so young and healthy. Vegan lifestyle, and all.” Sherlock prattles on as Roylott leads them inside the sitting room of the modestly furnished home. “Really makes you think. I mean - does your family have a history of heart problems?” Sherlock manages to make it sound like genuine concern as he reaches out and places a hand on the bicep of Dr. Roylott, looking at the man as if terrified he might be next. This seems to rattle Roylott even more. 

“No… no… not really possible that it's…” As they settle into their seats, Roylott runs a hand through his white hair and tries for a weak smile. “I'm not Julia's biological father, understand? I'm her stepfather. Since she was three. Her mother died unexpectedly when she was five. Never remarried. I'm surprised-” He looks up at Sherlock with a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “How did you say you know Julia?”

“Actually more knew _of_ her - through Helen,” Sherlock says smoothly. Again, not a lie.

Roylott looks away, wringing his hands and muttering distractedly, “Yes, Helen," as if the existence of his younger step-daughter had slipped his mind.

“Helen was quiet heartbroken when we saw her. I suppose her fiance is grief-stricken as well?”

Roylott's lip curls up in obvious disgust. “Tim,” he nearly snarls the name, like a curse, before he visibly makes his face more neutral and his voice toneless. “Wouldn't know. We weren't close. Wouldn't be surprised if he up and left town. Always was a bit unstable. Freak, really. All the piercings and keeping all those snakes-” He stops and looks up at them. “How'd you know Helen?”

“Work,” Sherlock says with a thin smile and it seems that he knows his disguise is failing because he doesn't put much effort into the act as he shoots back, “Is that how you're keeping busy these days, work?”

Dr. Roylott hesitates before he glances back at his desk, arranged with a variety of bottles that might be lotion or shampoo. His expression lightens with a hint of excitement as he looks over the assortment. “Yeah, actually. Own my own cosmetic company. About to premiere a new premium product line -” He stops suddenly and his eyes swivel around to Sherlock and narrow on him. “Wait - who are you, _exactly_?” He gets to his feet and Sherlock rises too, so John follows suit. “You're not Julia's friends at all. Who the hell are you?”

Sherlock seems unruffled by the sudden change in the man's demeanor. “I'm Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, and this is my… colleague, John Watson. We're investigating the rather suspicious death of Julia.” He watches Dr. Roylott's face closely but the reaction is immediate and not subtle in the least. Dr. Roylott's expression instantly goes dark and thunderous. His face goes red, every muscle tenses and he is visibly shaking with fists balled up at his sides. John knows what a man looks like before he unleashes violence, and Dr. Roylott is the picture of fury at the moment.

“How dare you?! You lying-”

“Actually, we never lied,” Sherlock corrects calmly. John grabs him by the elbow and pulls him towards the door just as Roylott starts to make a lunge for him. He pushes Sherlock all the way out the front door, Roylott shouting and storming after them the whole way.

“Stay of my business!” He roars as he slams the door shut behind them.

Still standing on the stoop, Sherlock smooths the bunches John had made in his coat whilst hauling him out of harm's way and quickly taps out a phone number on his mobile.

“What are you doing now?” John asks, exasperated but recognising that he's also (oddly) grinning over the whole absurd fiasco.

“Calling Helen, of course.”

“What for?”

“To get Dr. Roylott out of the house for the evening and us into Julia's room for the night.”

“Right... Wait, _what?”_

Sherlock looks up at John, a dangerous grin on his face. “If there's a venomous snake loose and killing people as they sleep, then the obvious way to prove it is to lie in Julia's bed and wait for it to _attack us.”_

“Us?” John asks, but Sherlock doesn't respond. He presses send, puts his mobile to his ear and simply walks away, leaving John to gape after him in shock and confusion.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter by notjustmom/Breath4Soul

Sherlock is quiet on the ride back to Baker Street, leaving John to his own thoughts about not only the case, but what has happened to him over the last few days. He is still trying to make sense of the man next to him and wondering why Sherlock chose him, of all people, to be essentially his partner in, well, _everything._ Now it appears they will be spending the night together in a strange house in hopes of -

"Baker Street, fellas."

John blinks at his surroundings. Sherlock is already out of the cab and inside the front door, leaving John to pay the fare. "No worries, mate - you're covered. He and I have a deal - go on." John starts to slide out. "Word of advice?" John stops and shrugs at the cabbie nonchalantly. The cabbie grins at him. "He's a brilliant guy. Not so good with people, but if he's picked you out of everyone - the millions of people in this city - he has his reasons. Try not to think too much about it -"

"What do you know about him?" John asks cautiously, knowing he's treading on thin ice.

"I know enough to keep my trap shut, mate. But, I can tell you this much... he's a good guy, just been on his own too long, but I can tell he's trying to settle down - wants to have a life finally."

"With me?" John asks, and he shakes his head in bewilderment.

"Don't sell yourself short, son. He sees something in you, something worth his time. He doesn't suffer fools easily, so I'd say he doesn't consider you one. Just keep an eye out for him... for as bright as he is, he can run a bit reckless at times."

"So I've noticed." John smirks back at him, then nods and gets out of the cab. "Ta."

"Anytime. He'll know we've chatted. Always better to stick with the truth with that one, because he'll figure it out on his own before you can even think of a good lie."

"Yeah, I've noticed that about him too."

John is greeted at the door by a rather perturbed Percy, whose nap had undoubtedly been disturbed. Sherlock is sitting in Percy's perch of choice, the black leather chair. John would have thought his softer, overstuffed chair more to the kitten's taste, but Percy seems to know his own mind.

"Yes, don't suppose he fed you?" He nods in the direction of the chair where Sherlock is again lost in thought. "Come on, let's get you some dinner, hmmm?"

"Just received a peculiar text from Molly..."

John opens the fridge to find leftovers for Percy's supper. He knows he is spoiling the kitten, but he finds he doesn't really care in the least. There is nothing too good for him. "To do with the toxicology report?"

"Hmm. It was venom, and yet not venom."

"Sorry, what?" John's brow is furrowed in confusion.

"Trace amounts of venom but not enough to kill... and something _else._ Unusual proteins. Bovine, she believes. She's running more tests."

John opens a carton of chicken, smells it to be sure it hasn't gone off, then spoons it out onto a plate. He places it on the floor for Percy to sniff at, a bit haughtily, then eventually he decides to eat it at his leisure. "So, the vegan has cow proteins in her blood? Why-?"

Sherlock nods, as he murmurs, "Why, indeed?"

"And how'd you know that anyways - the vegan thing? Helen never mentioned -"

"Facebook," Sherlock declares with a tilted smirk, waving his phone at John. "I looked her up." He pops the 'p' sharply and winks at John and John has to look away and busy himself clearing off the table for a moment to recover from the flush of heat that gesture sets off inside him. 

"Helen has devised a possible scheme to get her step-father out of the house for the night," Sherlock says after a few moments, his eyes closed as if in deep thought. "He is very fond of card games. There is an illegal establishment he frequents. They owe me a favour. I've arranged for them to keep him busy for several hours. If he fails to attempt to venture home before morning there have been _other arrangements_ made."

John stares at Sherlock quizzically until he finally opens his eyes to glare at John. "Yes, it is a bit of entrapment, John, but the man didn't particularly endear himself to me. The night may find him innocent of his step-daughter's death but, even if the gambling charge doesn't stick, forcing him to fill out paperwork until tomorrow afternoon will be a just punishment for nearly taking a swing at you."

"Don't think I was the one he was swinging at," John mutters, shaking his head back and forth with a grin. He decides to let it go. "So what time are we meant to be there?"

"You are willing to join me then?" Sherlock tries to avoid John's gaze, but John can sense he is more than a bit chuffed when it hits him that he is to have a real partner on this case. "Are you sure? It could become rather -"

"Dangerous?" John asks, and he can't keep the thrum of excitement from his voice.

"Quite so, we will need to be prepared for anything." Having finished his chicken, Percy leaps nimbly up onto Sherlock's lap and Sherlock strokes his fingers idly over the kitten's back as he stares off into space, thinking. When he tents his fingers in front of his lips over Percy's curled up form on his lap, John tries not to laugh about how this makes him look like some slick Bond villain coming up with evil schemes.

"So, we're looking for a snake?"

"A weapon," Sherlock says distractedly. Then his hands drop and his eyes focus on John. He appears to be about to stand up but looks down and is apparently startled to find himself with a lap full of sleeping kitten. He looks at John, as if for rescue, but John just smiles and shrugs. Percy knows his mind, and John's not about to deprive him.

Sherlock sighs and appears to try to ignore the intrusion that is absconding his lap. "There is one vital item for the successful resolution of any murder case, John, the murder weapon. It was not found by police this morning and with the stream of mourning callers and with Helen tending her sister's room this afternoon, that means the murderer didn't have time to remove it."

"Right," John agrees. "So, it's still there?"

Sherlock tilts his head in agreement. He has a small smile as if he's pleased that John is following along. "So, in addition to the possibility of a poisonous snake looking for it's nocturnal feeding, it's likely that the murderer will try to return to retrieve their murder weapon. And when they do-"

"It will be the two of us, waiting instead?" John asks, the light in his dark eyes sparkles at the idea of a bit of fisticuffs. Sherlock nods.

"We will have time for an early supper. It must be a light one, as we don't want to waste energy -"

"Right," John rolls his eyes, but gets up to make eggs and toast as he awaits Sherlock's further instructions. However, the other man has once again fallen into a reverie, unconsciously stroking the sleeping kitten on his lap as he stares off into the distance. He doesn't speak again until after they have eaten.

"Helen has made us a key for the back door. We should be able to slip in from the side garden unnoticed. Then, we wait for our cold-blooded agent of murder and its master to strike."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Breath4Soul

“Wait.” John's hand shoots out through the dark and closes around Sherlock's wrist. He yanks him back into the shadows of the garden gate where they flatten themselves against the wall. Sherlock is half pinned between John and the house to keep him out of sight. 

The light from the window of the home next door is spilling honey yellow into the blue velvet shadows of the side garden, but a dark figure is moving inside, blotting out the light behind the glass. John instinctively curls around Sherlock, arms coming up to cage his shoulders and press him back further into the corner with his body so that they can both fit into that sliver of shadow. 

He can feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest against his own as he breathes. Each quiet gust is a tickling, teasing, caress on John's neck as John strains to look over his own shoulder and track the dark figure’s progress across the room. The heady scent of hollyhocks, carnations, monkshood, and lavender settles, thick and intoxicating, around them. 

The shadow figure pauses, turns and retreats back the way it came. 

John waits a few seconds then lets out his breath, body relaxing in relief against Sherlock's. That's when he realises that what he has done may be _a bit not good._ There is a fine tremor running through Sherlock's body; a low humming vibration of tension. John turns his head slowly to find Sherlock staring at him, eyes gleaming silver-edged green, like a cat's, in the low light. John slowly withdraws the cage of his arms and steps back.

“Alright?” The lilt of that one hushed word asks more than if Sherlock had been harmed. It skates that delicate balance of trying not to assume and trying to understand this _something_ growing between them.

Sherlock just stares at him for a long moment, tension thrumming between them. His eyes, like the dark night that's full of hidden creatures, are brimming with hundreds of unidentifiable things. At last he seems to push it aside. He makes a sound that may be agreement or, at least, acknowledgment of the question. Then he turns and slinks, graceful and silent, through the shadows around the house and to the back door. He produces the key Helen provided from his pocket and quietly unlocks the door to Dr. Roylott's home. They both slip inside.

The house feels sullen and claustrophobic after the vastness and buzzing life of the garden at night. They must be close to Dr. Roylott's lab. There is a chemical tinge to the air in this part of the house that burns the back of John's nose and makes his eyes water with the unnatural tang of artificial citrus muddled with half a dozen other synthetic floral scents. 

John is careful to keep an appropriate distance between himself and Sherlock as they cautiously wind their way through the house to Julia's bedroom.

As soon as the bedroom door clicks closed behind them, Sherlock moves briskly and efficiently around the room. John watches from his position near the door as Sherlock touches, sniffs and shifts things about, seeking any evidence that may have been overlooked by police.

When Sherlock moves into the attached loo, John is left with nothing to stare at but the very narrow single bed in the center of the room; too small to comfortably hold two grown men. He has to wonder what the plan is. He thinks about the way Sherlock had reacted to their proximity moments earlier. The solid heat of his body pressed to John's and the pulsing shiver of it when John collapsed into him. Had it been adrenaline and fear of discovery?… Or... something _more?_

“Anything?” John whispers as soon as Sherlock re-emerges, if only to distract himself from the elephant in the room.

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth. His brow is furrowed in confusion as he continues to survey the dim room. “She hadn't been feeling well. Headache and nausea medicine. Rash cream as well.”

“So, the spots aren't new?”

Sherlock hums his agreement. “Nearly a month of them by the amount used. No prescription, though. Obviously things weren't going so well with the fiance.”

John narrows his eyes on Sherlock. “Sorry - What makes you think that things weren't going well with the fiance?”

Sherlock locks eyes with him. “Spots over 75% of your body - not something one can hide when intimate. Embarrassment would have compelled her to seek treatment from a physician if they were consummating their relationship with expected frequency.”

“Oh,” John says, his eyes inadvertently dropping to the constellation of beauty marks on Sherlock's neck. He clears his throat, firmly steering his thoughts away from similar freckles waiting to be discovered on secret swaths of skin. “Um. Could have been taking it slow? Waiting until after marriage?”

“Charming sentiment but statistically improbable.”

“Right. Ok…” John scratches at the back of his neck and stares at his own feet. There are more things that he could say or ask but the most pressing question is bubbling up inside him and choking out all other branches of thought. He has to get on with it.

“So, I sleep on the floor? Or-” 

“Don't be ridiculous. If we're to approximate the circumstances of her death we must be in the bed.” Sherlock swirls out of his coat, resting it over a nearby chair. “Coat, shoes and socks off. Lie down there.” He gestures at the side of bed nearest to John.

Having a firm order proves to be comfortingly familiar, taking away any awkwardness for John. He finds himself automatically stripping, as instructed, before he even has a chance to consider the implications of the 'we’ in that sentence. He looks up to find Sherlock has removed his shoes and socks and is carefully arranging himself on the furthest half of the bed. He stretches his long, bare toes to knead the bed, a little like Percy does when he's making himself comfortable.

“Human bait for a poisonous snake and a killer.” John shakes his head back and forth in amusement at the absurdity of it all. He looks up and Sherlock is looking back at him. “Craziest thing I have ever done.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow “And _yet,_ for a man that invaded Afghanistan,” his eyes sweep down John's body and back up, “likely not the most dangerous.”

John snorts a laugh at that. “Yeah, well, that wasn't _just me.”_

Sherlock's eyes flick down to the space beside himself where he'd instructed John to lay down. They trail slowly over John, coming to rest on his eyes again. “Nor is this,” he says evenly but there is a small, lopsided smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. It may be an absurdly foolish risk but they are in this together. 

John stifles a grin, finishes pulling off his socks and eyes the space Sherlock has left for him on the bed. There's simply no room.

“Right. Well, unless you're expecting me to lie on top of you, you're going to need to budge up.” John says, perching on the edge of the mattress. 

It's only a nanosecond, but he catches the way Sherlock freezes, his eyes going wide in surprise at the suggestion, before he becomes a flurry of shifting motion; turning on his side and scooting all the way back until he is on the edge of the bed to make room for John. 

He mutters something vaguely insulting about _‘size differentials’ factoring into space allotment_ but John chooses to ignore it because it's clear that Sherlock is flustered, little spots of pink blooming in his cheeks.

It takes some further shifting but they both manage to share the bed by lying on their sides facing each other. They both are on the edge of the bed to keep a respectable distance and the position forces them to have little else to do but stare directly into the other's eyes. 

Sherlock, who usually doesn't seem to notice or care when he is invading personal boundaries or staring at another for far longer than is considered polite, is visibly uncomfortable with this new intimacy. His eyes are darting around, seeking anything other than John to rest on, but are inevitably drawn back to him, only to dart away again and again. 

John lets his thoughts drift over their time together and tries to think through the puzzle of the man before him. As the hours begin to stretch around them, dark and quiet, some of their polite boundaries begin to dissolve. Holding their positions on the edge of the bed proves uncomfortable and they slowly start to shift and slide inward until they meet in the middle with little more than a hand width of space between them. This close, they can hear every sigh and breath, and feel every flex or shift of muscle of the other. 

John watches as Sherlock goes through a sort of journey in accepting this closeness. He never really relaxes, but his discomfort comes in throbs, cresting and receding, volleying between holding so still that the strain is apparent in every muscle or fidgeting and shifting in little spurts and jolts when he apparently fails to restrain the urge to move. He'll move towards John, freeze, then retreat a bit and then repeat. Shortly after midnight this anxiety seems to be reaching a crescendo. 

When John feels Sherlock might be about to crawl out of his skin, out of instinct he reaches over and rests his palm gently on Sherlock's forearm, as he had done when Sherlock had been so agitated over the possibility of Percy rejecting him. 

Sherlock instantly goes still, eyes swinging slowly from John's hand on his arm up to John’s eyes with an air of shock and disbelief.

“Alright?”

Sherlock's eyes narrow for a moment, as if trying to think of a way around this conversation but, at last, his resolve seems to shatter.

“I've missed something,” he hisses like a shameful confession that angers and frustrates him. And it seems, once that is out, the fountain of thoughts is uncorked and comes spilling rapidly into the space between them. “You should know, I often do miss something. It's generally some small detail or minor idiosyncrasy. More often than not it is non-essential to the overall resolution to the case but now- now-” Sherlock leans a little closer. Looking at John with eyes that are furious and frantically searching for answers. “The puncture wound. The timeline. Anaphylaxis. The effects are near instantaneous. The spots - the _bloody_ spots!” Sherlock lifts his hand and sinks it into his hair. “Think. I just need to think!”

“Hey, hey,” John says gently tugging Sherlock's arm down so he stops assaulting his own hair. Sherlock's eyes look wild, desperate to find a solution. “I think maybe _overthinking_ is the problem.” 

Sherlock's whole face scrunches up as he looks at John as if he's just suggested something completely absurd.

“Listen,” John says shifting and sliding his hand up to rest on Sherlock's bicep, right above his elbow. “It's like when you stare at a word so long that it starts to look funny - loses all meaning.”

“Semantic saturation,” Sherlock offers.

“Right,” John says with a grin, not at all surprised that Sherlock knows such an obscure term. “Think you're just _oversaturated_ with the problem. Need to think about something else for a bit. It'll come to you when you stop forcing it.”

Sherlock frowns but nods slowly. He looks down at the space between them. “That' easier said than done.”

John hums his understanding. Through the thin veil of darkness, with little more than a handwidth between them, John feels like he can't hide a thing. There's an honesty to the darkness. Alone and face-to-face, there isn't any excuse not to say things he's thought of saying a hundred times since they'd met - the things that have been tumbling through his head all night as he watched Sherlock fight himself as he drew closer.

“You know, I've been meaning to thank you.”

“Thank me? What in the world for?” The fact that Sherlock looks so shocked and confused by the possibility that John has anything to thank him for makes John grin.

“Yeah… I mean, when you showed up at my door all pushy and demanding, pushing this cat-”

_“Kitten.”_

“Right, _kitten_. This little life, into my hands... yeah, thanking you was the furthest thing from my mind. Because I - I didn't want anything or anyone. I was... at my wit's end and-” John breaks off, his voice, growing unsteady and his hand twinging against Sherlock's bicep. He starts to pull his hand away so he can flex the pain out of it but Sherlock grabs it before he can fully retreat.

“I know,” he says firmly staring into John's eyes with an expression that tells him more than a thousand words. And John knows it's true. Sherlock had seen that too - had seen that John was about to end it all. That's why he had stopped observing from afar and instead engaged.

John clears his throat and turns his hand so their fingers intertwine. Their clasped hands come to rest in the space between them.

“I never mentioned it, but there were moments in that first week with Percy of sheer panic and frustration. It was an adjustment. I was sort of gone on him the minute those bright eyes locked on mine and I wanted to show him - you know - that he was safe and cared for and just not - not alone anymore but I didn't know how. I'm a bit out of practise myself,” John gives him a sad, self-deprecating smile, “And cats… well, they’re very particular about how they like to be touched. Sensitive creatures - hypersensitive, really. Especially when they aren't used to the human touch.” John looks down at his hand joined with Sherlock's. He slowly begins to circle his thumb over the delicate skin of his wrist. 

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, tensing then slowly relaxing into the stimulating touch. John can feel the tempo of his pulse swelling. He looks up again and finds Sherlock is watching his face cautiously.

“He was always running away or even striking out, clawing me up. I might've even given up but... I could tell he wanted it… wanted to give and get affection - was touch starved, really. He just… he struggled. He was scared and it was… well, overwhelming for him at first.” John looks down again and slowly moves his hand, fingers skimming feather light over Sherlock's wrist and up to his forearm where he wraps it around and he pushes his thumb in, stroking the muscle, urging it to relax. John looks up and finds that Sherlock's eyes have fluttered closed, his breathing is rapid and unsteady as he struggles to relax into this new sensation. John waits and waits until Sherlock goes lax before he begins again.

“So, I had to… um… go slow,” John drags out the word as he moves his hand up to Sherlock's bicep. He feels the muscles twitching. He watches as Sherlock's face twitches as well. He waits with his hand resting there until Sherlock settles and his eyes blink open and find John. They are still sharp but dark, intensely focused on John.

“Had to come to him on his own terms - learn how he wants love, you know.” John looks up into Sherlock's eyes. “Slow and steady, yeah? Not pushing too hard...I was fine with it. I _still am,_ ” he says, his hand sliding carefully around the back of Sherlock's head and into his hair.

Sherlock makes a sound in the back of his throat - a broken off little note. He is searching John's face with wide eyes. His breathing has ratcheted up and his gaze keeps flicking to John's lips

“It's fine, Sherlock. All fine,” John says softly, soothingly, and his gaze drops to Sherlock's lips as he pushes his tongue out to wet his own. He shifts the shoulder he is lying on to let that arm move and his hand cup the other side of Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock blinks a few times, his breath catching a little before he says sharply, “I know it is.”

John smiles gently. He knows it is merely a defensive swipe. It is, in some ways, a fight against Sherlock's very nature of fierce independence and self-sufficiency to take what John is offering. It is a risk, but one he hopes that they can take together.

Though John is exerting no pressure with the hand cupping his head, Sherlock is starting to slide forward, like he is being drawn to John. It is like watching his defenses erode. John stares into Sherlock's eyes and strokes his fingers soothingly, encouragingly, at the nape of his neck, letting Sherlock come to him, glacially slow. 

At last, when there is only the space for breath between them, John whispers, “Alright?” asking for permission to close that final gap that Sherlock seems unable to.

Sherlock's nod is small, barely more than a twinge that John feels in the muscles of his neck. So, John moves slowly, hands grasped loosely, lips brushing gently - just a feather light caress against Sherlock's lips - then retreating. The feeling is electric, coursing through John, but he holds steady and focuses on Sherlock.

“Relax,” he whispers. Sherlock is not breathing. His eyes are crushed closed and he's holding himself so rigidly still that John fears he might burst from the strain of it. John begins to wonder if he should back off altogether and is about to slide away when Sherlock's hands shoot up, fist in John's shirt, and yank him forward, pressing their lips together in a firm, somewhat desperate kiss. 

John goes still in shock for a few seconds, then begins to move. He feels Sherlock shiver and his fingers flex as he begins to suck and taste, deepening the kiss. Sherlock is trembling now in John's hands. Such intense desire is seeping out of him, but it is blocked, held until he's nearly bursting. It's intoxicating and John could do this for hours, just explore and slowly overcome his defenses, but after a few moments, Sherlock's hands against his chest flatten and push him away.

Sherlock looks overwhelmed and confused. His eyes are wild, his lips and cheeks are flushed.

"John," he rasps breathless. His fingers tighten in the fabric of John's shirt again, trembling like he is fighting the urge to yank him back and kiss him again. He swallows roughly. "I - I should tell you, I don't do relationships. That is - it's transport and-" He seems even more flustered as he struggles to go on, like he's trying to string together an argument but can't muster the focus. "I consider myself married - married to the work-"

"Right," John says, "I won't ask you to change that. Anything. The work-"

"No. It's not - it'd have to-" Sherlock freezes and his eyes go wide, with an expression of delighted revelation. "Oh! Oh! Of course! The _work,"_ he says, scrambling over John and then into the loo. There are the sounds of things being knocked about and Sherlock muttering to himself. John springs up but only makes it a step in the direction of the loo before Sherlock comes barreling back out, holding a bottle of something.

"The work! Don't you see! The work is what's important to him!" Sherlock is scrambling around the room, jamming his feet into his shoes and throwing on his coat as John helplessly trails after, trying to figure out what's going on.

"Sherlock, just... Can we slow down?"

"No time, John." And just like that, he's gone, dashing out of the room.

John only stops to put on his shoes, shove both pairs of socks into his coat pocket and then runs after him but he finds the cab with Sherlock in it is already pulling away. He watches the tail lights disappear and sighs in defeat, fearing he's just bodged up the best thing that has ever happened to him.

John turns and begins to plod along the pavement, plotting the long trek back to Baker Street, when a cab pulls up next to him. _Rather pushy on this end of town,_ he thinks. 

The window rolls down and a weathered looking fellow pokes his head out.

"Thanks, but I'm just-"

"He says to take you to New Scotland Yard," the cabbie interrupts, nodding towards where the tail lights have disappeared down the street.

"Sorry, what?" John asks, stepping closer.

The cabbie starts to open his mouth but the crackle of his radio interrupts and a familiar, deep voice, made somewhat tinny and mechanical through the speaker, says, "Tell him to bring my socks."

"Him," says the cabbie with a lifted eyebrow and a tilt of his head towards the radio.

John grins. "Oh, I know exactly who that prick is and I've got his bloody socks." He jumps in the cab and they speed away.


	14. Chapter 14

John hops out of the cab as the cabbie pulls up in from of New Scotland Yard, hoping, but not expecting to see Sherlock waiting for him. No sign of the git. John pulls his phone out and taps out:

> I'm here, where are you?
> 
> Barts. I have to get the body wash tested. - SH
> 
> So, why am I here?
> 
> You need to tell Lestrade about Roylott, about the case. - SH
> 
> Lestrade? You mean the owner of the badge you pickpocket from on a regular basis?
> 
> The same. Relax. You'll do great. Sorry phone about to die. - SH

Sherlock drops his phone into his pocket and looks up to see Molly watching him, arms crossed.

"What?"

"You bolt in here as I am about to go home, looking like you are being chased by, I don't know what, and without your -"

"His name is John."

"Uh-huh... I got that much. Who is he?"

"He's -" His answer is interrupted by the beeping on the mass spectrometer.

"Saved by the beep..." Molly mutters as she looks at the results. "Yeah, body wash was definitely the murder weapon, clever, even if someone had been suspicious... nope, you're not getting off the hook that easily. Sit."

"This. This is exactly why I don't do this."

"This?" Molly asks quietly as she sees the look on his face and knows he is petrified. She's never seen him actually scared about anything in the years they have known each other.

"Relationships. People -" 

"I did see how John was watching you as you examined the body."

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock."

"He - he was a project - a case, essentially - I realised. I saw... I knew, from the look in his eyes... I had seen it in my own mirror before.... so I involved myself... A kitten, and -"

"Breathe, Sherlock. Okay, so you -"

"- it had been a bad few weeks, when I noticed him, and he made me stop thinking about myself, made me wonder, think... and I remembered the last time... He thinks I'm being kind, that I'm a decent person, because I gave him a kitten, and essentially dragged him into my life. I'm not, you know that, Molly, but he sees something in me, and it's only been a few days. He makes me want to be better, but it won't matter. When he figures it out, what I'm really like, he will leave, I know it, if not right away, he'll find someone else, who's better, nicer... than me. But tonight, I, no, it wasn't really an experiment - I - set myself up - set him up - on this case - and he kissed me, and I kissed him, and I wanted, and I think he wanted, he was so careful, like he understood somehow, and I could see myself get used to it, to him, and I can't allow myself to do that, Molly..."

"Soooo...?" 

"... so then I figured out the answer, grabbed the evidence, and left him at the crime scene, holding my socks."

"I'm not even going to ask about the socks. Where is he now?"

"What?"

"Where is John now?"

"He's, oh, bollocks, I sent him to New Scotland Yard - I gotta go -" He grabs the bottle of body wash from the counter, and the results from Molly's hand, and dashes out the door.

"I'm looking for DI Lestrade." John says to the harried looking sergeant. She looks up at him with an expression that lets him know he is of little importance in her life at the moment.

"Is it an emergency?" She grumbles, as she switches her monitor back on.

"I'm - well, I'm a friend of Sherlock -"

"Stop right there."

"It's important, we're working on a case -"

"I know for a fact, the freak hasn't been allowed on a case for months, and that he is not working on any of our cases -"

"It's a murder -"

"Of course it is."

John sighs, then pulls himself up to his full height and smiles tightly at her. "You must be DS Donovan. He's told me about you. We have a case, and we are trying to prevent a second one. So, I'm really going to insist that you allow me to see your boss."

He should probably let the insult go but, with the abrupt way things ended with Sherlock, he's feeling a bit raw. He moves closer to her and speaks crisply, for her ears alone, "Sherlock is my friend and colleague, and if you ever call him freak again, I will report your lack of professionalism to your superiors." He glares into her eyes, while keeping his voice level, yet menacing all the same. "I'm a veteran of Afghanistan, Kandahar and Bart's bloody hospital, I assure you, you do _not_ want to go to war with me." He steps back from her and smiles again, as he realises his hand hasn't twitched once since he got out of the cab, and he lets out a sigh of, if not satisfaction, at least relief at knowing he is still the same man he was before, except better. Stronger.

Donovan studies his face for a moment, then shrugs as she switches off her monitor and rises from her desk. "It's your funeral, mate. Right now the boss is on the phone with his ex, which always leaves him in a great mood. I'm sure he'd love to hear what the - what Holmes wants to dump on his desk at five in the morning. Be my guest. Don't say I didn't warn you - uhm - I didn't catch your name."

"No, you didn't, because I didn't give it."

She gives him a smirk and another shrug, then grabs her coat and makes her way towards the door.

"Donovan!" She closes her eyes as Lestrade's voice booms at her. He's now standing in the doorway of his office.

"Bollocks, so close." She glares at John and makes her way to the office.

"You too... Uh, John? Yer Watson, right? Got Holmes on my phone telling me about some murder I didn't even know was a murder..." Lestrade turns from his doorway, strides to his desk, and drops wearily back into his chair as Donovan, and John follow close behind, entering his office. "Sit!" He gestures distractedly at the other chairs across from his desk. Putting the phone back to his ear, he scrounges for a pen and paper and says, "Yeah, gimme, Holmes. No, no. Christ, slow down and start from the beginning, so those of us with normal intellects can catch up."


	15. Chapter 15

There is a quiet before the storm. Donovan has left to pull Dr. Roylott, who was arrested at the illegal gambling raid, from his holding cell to the interrogation room and it’s just John and DI Lestrade seated across from each other in the DI’s office. John busies himself by scrolling through his own phone. There are no more messages from Sherlock, which is about the only purpose he ever used the thing for, anyhow. He frowns at the screen, reading the texts from Sherlock over and over again - trying to figure out what sort of emotion might be hidden within his typed words. 

Is he angry? Hurt? Embarrassed? Afraid? Panicked?  
He sure seemed desperate to get away after that kiss.

John's heart sinks; heavy with self-recrimination. He shouldn't have pushed boundaries, certainly not so quickly. Now Sherlock is pulling away. 

From behind the desk, the DI’s gaze is burning into him. The silence is full of questions that John has no answers for. 

“So, you're _with_ Sherlock,” Lestrade says slowly. He is leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on John, arms crossed over his chest. “He’s your…?” He lifts his eyebrows and spreads his hands, palms up, encouraging John to fill in the blank.

“Flatmate. We're flatmates.” John’s tone is cool, emotionless. Sherlock isn't _his,_ in any shape or form, as much as he'd hoped the evening would prove otherwise. “And I'm helping him with cases… or _this one_ at least. I was - _am_ a doctor.”

“Right.” Lestrade nods, leaning forward. “Soldier too, the way he tells it. Soldier and doctor; was _quite_ clear about that.” He rubs his hand over his bristly chin, his brow furrowed. “Was a bit more… evasive... when it came to who you are _to him._ Just said, ‘he's with me’.”

“Right.” John nods and stares down at his phone again, the same brusque texts staring back at him. He is _‘with’_ Sherlock, for as long - and as much - as Sherlock wants him to be… which may not be long at this point. The more he thinks about how the evening all fell apart, the worse he feels.

He looks up at Lestrade. The man has a quiet way of demanding answers without saying a word. It reminds John of a commanding officer he knew in his army days. It, no doubt, serves the man well in his work.

“I’m not sure that this isn’t just a one off - helping with the case, I mean. It just sort of _happened_ and I might not be involved like this in his future work.” John tries to force a smile. It feels tight, thin… transparent. It's up to Sherlock how things go from here on out, and as much as John hates to step away from helping Sherlock on cases, if that's what Sherlock wants, he'll do it. He'll do anything for Sherlock, really

“He invited you into his work. That’s a high compliment, comin’ from Sherlock. Actually, not sure there is one much higher, coming from him.” 

“Right… wouldn't be so sure.” John tries to offer it casually with a laugh but it comes out dry, tinged with that slight edge of disappointment he’s been trying to hide. “Like I said, might just be this once.” He shrugs and looks off towards the door, wishing Donovan would hurry up already.

Lestrade studies him a moment, his expression shifting as he considers him thoughtfully. He glances up at the window looking out on the rest of NSY, as if to assure Sherlock isn't nearby, then leans forward over the desk, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.

“Listen, I've known Sherlock for maybe... five years now and, there's no doubt he's brilliant but he's also… well, he's a bit like a force of nature, really - nothing gets close without risking damage… and he's worst of all on himself. A mind like that, it can grind itself to pieces. I honestly didn't know if he'd ever be able to cope… but then… well... a few months back he... _changed.”_

“How’d you mean?” John leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped around his phone. He can't help but be concerned for Sherlock, who'd told John that he'd just come from rehab only a few months ago.

“He's… um, _better._ Little things you learn to look for - warning signs - gone… and, more than that, really… like he's got something… hope, maybe, don’t know... for the first time…” He looks up at John with a small smile on his face that conveys genuine happiness and pride for Sherlock's recovery. “I didn't know what it was that'd done it but now I'm certain... it's _you,_ John”

“No.” John puts a hand up to stop Lestrade. His heart squeezes painfully and drops to his stomach at what Lestrade is implying. “I think you've got it wrong. It's not like that.”

Lestrade shakes his head back and forth. “The way he was just talking about you - it's pretty clear... Sherlock doesn't care about people like that. You know that he told me exactly how you like your tea. Made me promise to send Donovan to fetch Roylott so she wouldn't _'inflict her idiocy’_ on you- his words, _not_ mine. Also told me to text immediately if you start flexing your left hand or looks like your leg is hurting you. Practically threatened me with bodily harm if either of those things happen - said it obviously meant I’d been ‘mistreating’ you.”

John blinks at Lestrade, stunned speechless. 

“Tea?” Lestrade says with raised eyebrows and a grin that says he obviously doesn’t intend to get on Sherlock’s bad side by 'mistreating’ John. He pushes the cup of tea he'd made for John earlier across his desk. John leans forward and picks it up to take a sip. It's lukewarm but otherwise made just as he likes. He makes a sound to convey his approval.

“Doesn't mean anything. I mean,"John sighs and drums his fingers against the paper cup, staring down at the amber liquid. "He notices that sort of thing about everyone, doesn't he?” He places the cup back on the desk. “Can't help it.”

“Yeah, he notices things about people but not like _that..._ Secrets. Embarrassing habits. Misdeeds. Noticing that stuff… well, it's his job but it's also a matter of _survival,_ innit? Sort of a self-defense. A way to defend himself against others - keep 'em at arm's length. But with you... he cares. He’s looking out for you-”

“Wouldn't be so sure.” John rubs at the back of his neck. “Just this evening, he left me at a crime scene. Just ran out like he forgot I existed.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Lestrade smiles ruefully. “Listen, he's not going to make it easy for ya. But I imagine if you were the kind of bloke that was put off easy, we wouldn't be talking right now.”

John stares at Lestrade a moment. It's clear he isn't going to give up so easily either. He believes Sherlock has feelings for John and he's not going to let it drop.

“Right. I appreciate what you're trying to do but…. It may look like something but he's got his work and I - I - well, I don't think he feels things that way - at least not for _me._ Maybe not for anyone." John shrugs.

“Oh, did he give you that whole _‘I’m a sociopath’_ bit? He’s _not,_ you know. Much as he’d like to not have emotions, like us mere mortals, he's got his fair share. It's just-” Lestrade sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, Sherlock is a great man - a good one too, but I don't think he knows that yet. I think he needs help to believe it, if you know what I mean. It's awfully hard to accept love from someone if you're the smartest guy around and you've somehow come to the idiotic conclusion that you're a sociopath - incapable of love… maybe even unlovable. He's always-” 

Lestrade cuts off as a jumble of voices from outside the office begins to rise to the pitch of a heated argument. His gaze lifts to the windows and he scrambles to his feet. “ Speak of the devil. Holy hell-”

John barely has time to catch sight of the curly mop of hair over the crowd outside the office before he is instinctively on his feet and rushing towards him. He throws open the office door and pushes through a knot of people just in time to grab Dr. Roylott's cuffed hands before they land a blow upside Sherlock’s head. John forces Dr. Roylott off balance and back. He falls into the crowd and two officers grab him from each side by the arms, restraining him. He continues to shout and curse at Sherlock, trying to break free to attack him.

When John turns, Sherlock is staring back at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He looks stunned… but by the fact that Dr. Roylott took a swing at him or that John stopped the attack is unclear. Sherlock quickly shakes it off, eyes refocusing on Dr. Roylott as he goes back on attack.

“After years working on this new product, you couldn't bear to let it fail, but you'd gambled away all the money from your investors. There was nothing left. No money to do the proper testing. So, tell me, Dr. Roylott, did you kill your daughter for the insurance money or was it a _happy little accident_ that the body wash you created and gifted to her slowly poisoned her to death?”

“You shut your mouth, you heartless freak! It was an accident! I’d never hurt her. I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” Dr. Roylott screams, trying to lunge at Sherlock. Sherlock pulls back, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Of course, only a highly incompetent and vindictive murderer. You ignored her symptoms until she died and then framed her fiance by injecting her with antivenom, making the puncture wound look as though she had been bitten by a snake.”

“Oh, God. How could you!” 

John turns and finds Helen standing amid the crowd of officers. She has tears streaming down her face. Her large eyes are swimming with anger and pain. 

“Helen-” Dr. Roylott crumples beneath her withering gaze.

“She trusted you! We both did! You were supposed to be our father!"

“I didn't mean to - Sweetie, you have to understand, it was for us. I just needed one break - for all of _us_ -”

“She's dead! There's no _us!_ You - You-” Helen blindly throws herself at Dr. Roylott in grief and rage. Several detectives scramble to pull apart the mess as she strikes out at him. 

When Dr. Roylott is at last hauled off to processing for homicide, and Helen is guided to a room to calm herself, Sherlock turns to Lestrade.

“I trust that confession will be enough for you to be going on.”

“Um. No. That's not quite how it works, Sherlock. I'll need evidence and murder weapon-”

Sherlock sighs, and rolls his eyes with apparent annoyance. “Really, Lestrade, must I do all your work for you?" He thrusts some papers and a bottle of body wash into Lestrade's hands. "Here is your murder weapon and the test results to prove it. Poison by body wash. A search of Dr. Roylott's home lab will uncover matching batches of contaminated product. His financial records will tell you all you need to know about his gambling habit and his state of desperation.”

“Brilliant,” John says reflexively because Sherlock rattling off his insights is easily the most spectacular thing he's ever seen. Both Lestrade and Sherlock turn to look at him with surprise but Lestrade's initial shock transforms into a knowing smirk and Sherlock's expression turns into confusion.

“You said something about antivenom?” Lestrade asks. Sherlock pulls his eyes away from John to fix them on the DI again.

“Yes, two small puncture wounds on her ankle. Meant to mimic a snake bite. Were, in fact, injection sites. He tired to be clever and frame the fiance, however the symptoms didn't quite match. There was no degradation of the skin at the site of the bite, and the lack of swelling, along with the fact that she'd had the rash for weeks prior, ruled out an anaphylactic reaction. Bovine proteins present in her blood were the final give away. It is unlikely Dr. Roylott realised that they make antivenom by injecting domesticated animals with a small amount of venom and then extracting their antibodies, which often contains residual proteins. Molly can confirm that it was antivenom. The concentration of it will prove that it was injected posthumously. He valued his work above all else, even the life of his daughter.”

“Fantastic,” John exclaims quietly, shaking his head back and forth in awe at how Sherlock had brought all the disparate pieces together to form a clear picture. 

Sherlock stops and swallows hard, looking at John for a moment. “Do you know you're doing that out loud?”

John's euphoria at witnessing Sherlock at his finest evaporates as he's flooded with embarrassment. Of course Sherlock doesn't want him fawning all over him like some lovesick puppy. 

“Right. Sorry. I'll just-” John starts to step away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He stops and turns back to Sherlock, remembering the reason why Sherlock had been so concerned about him coming. 

“Oh, right. Here's your socks." John pulls the socks out of his pockets and places them in Sherlock's hands with the crisp nod of an order fulfilled. He just catches a glimpse of Lestrade with his eyebrows so high they are almost in his fringe, but he doesn't really care about his (wrong) assumptions at the moment. All of the sudden his leg is killing him and he just wants to get home and crawl into his own (empty) bed to forget this whole bloody night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, but surely getting there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is truly a collaborative effort, you'll see both of us here. :)

“Lestrade,” John says with a polite nod towards the detective. “Thanks for the... um… tea. Appreciate it.” 

“Right. Any time, mate.” 

Sherlock's eyes narrow in suspicion on the two of them as they shake hands. They've definitely spoken about him in his absence. Lestrade has that guilty twist to his mouth and he is avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

Perhaps letting them have time alone together was _not_ the best laid plan.

John withdraws his hand and turns to walk away without a glance at Sherlock. His shoulders are hunched and he's limping slightly, though he's trying hard to hide it by moving slowly and deliberately.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock growls as he whirls back around and glares accusingly at the DI.

“Don't look at me,” Lestrade says, lifting his hands - his face the picture of innocence. “He was fine until you showed up and ripped his head off for daring to pay you a compliment.”

Sherlock internally winces and turns back to follow John with his gaze. Every pained step John takes seems like a pointed accusation. 

_Sherlock did that._

Though he never intended to hurt John, that is all he has done this evening with his utter incompetence when it comes to all things emotional. 

"Listen, there's paperwork to deal with, but I'll bring that by tomorrow - or, much later today, I should say. You've got better things to take care of just now." Lestrade tips his head towards John. “Off with ya.”

Sherlock just stares at Lestrade, trying to work out what has come over him. As much as he often wishes otherwise, never has he known the DI to be anything less than relentless when it comes to prompt paperwork.

“The case-”

“-will wait. We've got Roylott. He's not going anywhere.” Lestrade makes an urgent shooing gesture at Sherlock. “Don't just stand there. Go on. He's getting away.”

“Don’t be absurd. Why would I-”

“Christ on crackers, Sherlock!” Lestrade throws his hands up in frustration. “I swear if you don't go after him and at least _try_ to talk this out, I'm shutting you out of cases for a month!”

Sherlock blinks at him, shocked by his passion. It's not like Lestrade to get so worked up. 

“You can't _ground_ me from cases. I'm not a child!”

“Then stop acting like one!” 

Lestrade sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, his voice dropping to a calmer tone.

“You know I'm no relationship expert but I think I'm a decent judge of character. That man just pretty handily stopped you from getting your big brain bashed out by that murder suspect and he apparently brought you your socks from... _who knows where_ …” He holds up his hand to halt Sherlock, who is about to explain. “Really don't want to know. Point is… you can do better by him than _that.”_ He points at John's retreating back. “Make an effort. Communicate.”

“It’s not -”

"Stop being an idiot and go after him."

“I wouldn't know what to say-”

“You're the genius. Figure it out.”

When Sherlock slumps in defeat at the impossibility of him suddenly 'figuring out' how to deal with people after twenty eight years of failure, Lestrade sighs and steps closer. “Maybe start with 'I'm sorry for being an utter wanker that left you at a crime scene'.”

"Right." 

Sherlock turns and bounds through the maze of cubicles, quickly catching up to John. John glances over but says nothing. Sherlock walks in silence next to him as they exit the building. 

Outside on the pavement, Sherlock lifts a hand and a cab immediately pulls up the kerb in front of them. 

"How -?" John breathes, the start of a smile curling the corner of his mouth as he shakes his head back and forth.

Sherlock opens the door for him and he all but falls awkwardly into the seat, his leg obviously troubling him. Sherlock closes the door, then quickly makes his way to the other side of the cab, opens the door and slides in. He looks out his window as they begin to weave into traffic. The streets are just beginning to fill up with ambitious office workers and early morning runners. In some ways he'd rather be any one of those ordinary people, going about their ordinary lives. It seems so much simpler for them. His very existence is an exhausting trial of resistance and rejection.

He glances over and sees John subtly trying to flex a tremor from his hand. Sherlock plucks up his courage and plunges in.

“That thing - the thing you did back there it was... it was _fine._ ”

“Sorry, what?” 

Sherlock can feel John's stare on the side of his face but he can't bear to look him directly in the eyes now. This somehow feels like the riskiest thing he's ever done. He swallows roughly, a lump of sand lodged in his esophagus. He flutters fingers over his neck.

“Um… The thing… what you said. I didn't mind. It was… _good._ ”

“Oh, right.” There's a pause. John shifts. “Yeah?” 

Sherlock forces himself to look at John. His eyes are full of confusion and closed off - cautious in a way that stabs through Sherlock. He wants to ask forgiveness but can't just yet. He just nods and hopes John understands. 

“Ok," John says. He breathes out, flexes his hand and leans against the window. After a few moments he closes his eyes. Sherlock waits until he is asleep and stares his fill, watching him all the way back to Baker Street.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"John, we're home."

"Home?" He rubs his eyes and blinks them open to the early morning light. Sherlock is holding the door open for him.

"Baker Street. Our home, John."

"Right." He nods and slowly slides out of the cab. Sherlock watches him, wanting to help but understanding it may not be welcome. "Ta." John smiles tightly at him as he closes the door. 

In silence they make their way upstairs. John limps over to his seat and drops heavily into it. After a long sigh that speaks of exhaustion, he bends over to untie his shoes.

Sherlock moves without thought and is as surprised as John to find himself kneeling in front of John, one hand wrapped delicately around the ankle to hold it up and other on the laces. He looks up at John, afraid he has misstepped, but after a second spent searching Sherlock's face, John nods and settles back, allowing Sherlock to take care of him by removing his shoes for him. It feels significant.

Sherlock discreetly lets his fingers linger the skin of John's ankle as he works his shoes off. He doesn't want to make John uncomfortable, but the little brushes of skin on skin is soft, and warm, and surprisingly calming after the events of the evening. It seems to work for John as well. He is visibly relaxing by the time Sherlock gets to his second shoe.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbles under his breath.

John freezes, looking down at Sherlock in surprise. “What?”

Sherlock picks up John's shoes, stands up, and carries the shoes over to the front door. He slips out of his own shoes, then hangs up his coat and scarf as he tries to work out what to say. John is watching him as he walks back over to where John is sitting. He leans against the mantelpiece, afraid to look at John. "What happened at the house, it was -"

John is on the edge of his chair, hands waving off what Sherlock is trying to say. "No. No. It's not - Don't worry. I won't -"

”John, please. Let me." He turns slowly, trying to remain calm for John, even as his stomach is roiling and his mind whirs. "You surprised me. From the first moment. It's been a long time since anyone has surprised me... I don't know… I can usually distance myself - divorce myself from emotion... but I'm afraid I lost objectivity about you the moment I met you, actually before I met you. You must understand, John. I didn't do what I did save you. Okay, I did, but at the same time I was saving myself. It was selfish. I'm - I'm not good at this… this is not my area... I'm out of my depth and I'm - I'm making a mess of this."

At that moment, Percy stretches and yawns on Sherlock's chair - making a small annoyed noise, as if trying to tell Sherlock to get on with it.

"Yes. I quite agree, Percy, it is intolerable that I can't get to the point." Sherlock takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself.

"Sherlock. You don't need to -"

"I do, John... This, all of this... you, Percy, companionship, friendship - this is more than I ever anticipated - You were invaluable on this case, and - and to _me_ … Not just because you are my conductor of light, John. A puzzle. You are a brilliant, magnificent puzzle, but I wish… I know I've no right to ask… if you can give me time, John… please... stay?"

There is a complicated tangle of emotions in John's dark blue eyes, impossible to decipher for Sherlock. 

“Of course.” John says firmly. “Of course, I'll stay, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock carefully kneels in front of John. "If you can be patient with me, John."

"God, yes, Sherlock.” A slight smile dances on John's lips and his eyes brighten as he gazes down at him. He brushes an overlong curl from Sherlock's eyes, then nods decisively at him. “We've got time and I'm a patient man." 

Sherlock very nearly leans into John's gentle touch as it pulls away and barely catches himself before he makes a sound of protest. How lucky is Percy to feel such comforting caresses all the time!

“At the moment, though,” John says, leaning back. “I truly am knackered. I'm for my bed, yeah?” He taps his lips thoughtfully. “We can sort ourselves tomorrow, erm, later today?"

Sherlock nods, and shifts back. He watches from his crouched position as John stands. He reaches down and offers Sherlock his hand, helping him to his feet. He looks at him a long moment, smile warm and eyes soft, before he carefully lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the inside of Sherlock's wrist. If John notices Sherlock's shiver he doesn't let on as he releases Sherlock's hand.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”John smiles gently. He quietly turns and leaves the room. Percy is quick and quiet on his heels.

Sherlock blinks, watching John until he disappears out the door, then he drops into his chair. He closes his eyes and soon is lost in a detailed examination of the time since he first saw John. Hours later, he still has not arrived at a satisfactory conclusion when Lestrade’s banging on the door brings him out of it.

"You're not here about the paperwork," Sherlock murmurs at the DI as he focus on him. He's holding a thick folder, old by the looks of it. 

Lestrade drops into the chair intended for clients and shakes his head back and forth. "No." He looks Sherlock over. “And you've not slept nor changed since the station.” Sherlock hums his confirmation. There's little hope of hiding this from the DI. As much as he berates Lestrade for his lack of observation, he is decent at his job. Lestrade glances around the room. “Yet, no signs of a domestic.” His gaze lands back at Sherlock. “John?”

”Still asleep.” Sherlock takes a breath, prepared to explain what has occurred in the same way he'd unravel a crime for the detective. “We’re not -"

"None of my business." He waves a hand to cut Sherlock off "But, yeah, I know."

"How do you know?"

”Door's unlocked and you're sitting here, off in your Mind Resort-”

“Palace.”

“Right... You've stayed up all night trying to figure out what to do about him."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "People -" he growls, ruffling his hair own hair in frustration.

”More complicated than you generally give them credit for, yeah?"

Sherlock shrugs, then gets up and strides into the kitchen. "I'm putting the kettle on. Tea?"

"Ta."

He adds enough water for three and plugs the kettle in. He walks back into the sitting room and sinks into his chair. "Most people are easy for me to read. Completely transparent and uninteresting to boot. John is not _'most people’._ I'm finding it - _him_ \- challenging.” 

"I noticed."

"You did?" 

Lestrade's smile is far too smug. “Don’t think there's anyone who knows you that wouldn't notice there's _something_ different about you. Even before John moved in, you've been different. Not that I'm complainin’ - a good puzzle keeps you out of trouble - safer all around.”

"He isn't a case, Lestrade."

"Exactly. Stop treatin’ him like one."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at Lestrade, wondering what he's on about. He opens his mouth to ask, but the kettle whistles. So he gets up to make tea instead. As he drops the bags into the mugs, John walks into the room.

"Afternoon." He yawns and drops into his chair. He looks over at Lestrade. "Right. Paperwork?"

"Paperwork and an old case I think you two might find interesting."

John takes the offered file and begins to read quietly, his expression growing darker and tighter as he scans the page. He looks up at Sherlock when he comes to stand near him. 

John's expression is like a punch in Sherlock's solar plexus. It's all wrong. His eyes are full of old pain Sherlock can't begin to comprehend and so he kneels by John's chair, hands hovering close but not touching. "John?"

"Sherlock. I - we need to take this case. Please?"

He hasn't known John to ask for much of anything, and there is nothing in him that could possibly deny John when he asks like _that._ Without even looking at the file John is handing to him, he nods, and clears his throat. “Yes. We'll take it, Lestrade."

"Good. It's an old case. No rush." Lestrade finishes his tea, and carries the empty mug back to the kitchen. He pauses to look over at the two of them, mouth open as if he wants to say something more, but then he just shakes his head, puzzled by the two of them and lets himself out of the flat.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Breath4Soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note from notjustmom: We are both so grateful for the reception of this story, this was a collaboration that began as a tumblr gift, and this story continues to be a gift for both of us. Just remember, this is a universe under construction, I tend to write very quickly, while my co-author is more deliberate as she writes her chapters, and there are some chapters we collaborate on. This chapter is all Breath4Soul, and I am just catching up to see where the story will head next, I am hoping to have the next installment in the next few days.
> 
> <3 <3 <3
> 
> njm

Sherlock rises from his position on the floor next to John's chair and slips into his own chair across from him, observing him closely. John's head is bent down and his face is obscured by the angle, but it's clear he's tense. His entire body is rigid and his clenched fists are shaking against his thighs. He’s never seen John like this, even in those days before they officially met, when he watched from afar as John wrestled with his feelings of apparent loss, purposelessness and desperation. He cannot fathom what has the power to affect John this deeply. 

He should say something. Something comforting - but he can't find anything of value to say. That's not really his area, after all. He's not any good at being someone's emotional support. He is, however, excellent at solving cases and he intends to do everything in his power to solve this one for John. 

It is the absolute _least_ he can do. 

He takes a deep breath, flips open the file and skims the details.

_American woman. Athlete. Accepted into the United States Military Academy in West Point, New York. Studied chemical engineering for three semesters. Transferred to the London School of Medicine to study nursing. Disappeared fifteen years ago, at age 21, after a mysterious car crash on A41 near Northchurch. Whereabouts unknown. Classified as a ‘suspicious’ missing persons case._

Sherlock pulls out the picture of the smiling young woman, blue eyes sharply intelligent and focused, blonde hair shining in the sunlight, smile...well, _that's_ intriguing. The softness and hook on the edges of it, like the Mona Lisa's smile; two expressions at once that leaves you unsettled by their occupation of the same space. He stares at her a long moment, bits of data beginning to form a cloud of deductions around her. Then he lifts his gaze to John.

“Who is she, John? Who is Mary Morstan?”

John swallows roughly, takes a deep breath and pulls his gaze up to look directly into Sherlock's eyes. 

“My wife.” 

Sherlock blinks and blinks again. Surely he misheard. He should ask John to repeat himself, but he doesn't want to risk hearing those awful words again - verifying, beyond any shadow of a doubt, such a terrible truth. Instead, he retreats into himself, his mind tumbling over and over, battering itself bloody against the sharp edges of doubt, hurt, anger and regret. Scrabbling for the truth, buried within each of their interactions so far - John’s heart belonged to another. Clinging to his sense of self as rational and analytical, he is desperate to find the point at which he had failed to draw the correct conclusions - missed or omitted data, or assigned an incorrect meaning. He needs to find it, to avoid making such a grave miscalculation ever again.

His mind splinters off, barreling down a parallel track of trying to determine what this means about their intimate evening. Had Sherlock misinterpreted John's behaviour in Julia's room? Had he actually forced that kiss to happen against John's will? He'd somewhat contrived the experience - the proximity - but had John merely responded to -

“...Sherlock?... Sherlock? That's getting a bit worrying now… Sherlock?”

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath, lungs aching as they stutter back to life and his eyes focus on John’s face again. John is leaning forward in his seat, one hand stretched out towards Sherlock's as if he means to give him a shake. There is worry and sadness and pain making a kaleidoscope of his face. It's too much.

“Married.” He flashes a thin, tight smile at John. “Of course. I missed it. It's always _something._ ” Sherlock all but flings himself out of the chair and strides into the kitchen, dropping the file on the table. 

“I warned you that that was a possibility. Not infallible.” He's babbling now but he can't stop. Everything moving faster and faster. “Deduction is dependent on accurate data collection and precision - precision of the instrument used for analysis - in this case, _my mind_ , when the purity of my reason becomes distorted - obstructed by emotionality, it will inevitably lead to erroneous conclusions.” He is automatically setting up the table with scientific equipment for an experiment; swirling around the kitchen in, what must appear to be, an agitated frenzy - twisting, grabbing and slamming objects like a somewhat violent dance. 

_Microscope. Slides. Pipettes. Scalpel. Sample?_

“Objectivity is paramount and to achieve objectivity there must be a certain distance between observer and subject and all other -” 

He turns from the table to go the fridge and stumbles. 

Apparently oblivious to the state Sherlock is in, Percy has crept into the kitchen and is trying to rub against Sherlock's legs affectionately. Sherlock nearly crashes into the worktop in his efforts to throttle his own momentum so as not to kick or step on the little purring ball of fur. Just as Sherlock pitches sideways, feet tangling, John is suddenly there grabbing him by the elbow and righting him.

“Sherlock. Please, can we just.. slow down a moment?” His hand is still wrapped around Sherlock's elbow, warm and steady, and his crystal blue eyes are large and glassy with emotions he’s fighting to keep in check. “Will you let me explain,” he pleads. “Please?”

Sherlock looks down into his face and is torn between the desire to somehow take away that pain he sees in John and the desire to lash out over the sting of a wound he should have never let himself be vulnerable enough for John to inflict on him. 

He only has himself to blame for the whole mess. Mycroft is always warning him of the dangers of getting involved, and here he is - on the losing side of emotional entanglement, falling for a man - _falling for him?!?_

_... Yes, falling._

Oh, how awful. How absurd. He can't -

“There's nothing to explain.” Sherlock makes his expression cold, pulls his arm away and continues to the fridge. He needs to disengage - shut down that growing… _whatever-it-is_ between him and John.

He pulls open the crisper and rummages for something to experiment on. 

“You met in uni. Some sort of social gathering, no doubt. She was reluctant to get involved, but your charm proved to be _too much to resist._ ” 

Bitterness.  
He hadn't intend to reveal that.  
But there it is in the sharp edges of those last words. 

He recovers his imperious tone, lifting his chin. Not even looking in John's direction, he moves back to the table with the container of livers that Molly had provided him with last week. Percy greets him from a seat at the table giving a quiet, inquisitive, _'merrow’._ He's obviously agitated by the conflict, his little tail curling and snapping through the air as he watches the proceedings with interest.

“She was intelligent and studying medicine as well, so, of course, you were compatible. Dated approximately six months before you proposed. Married discreetly. You hadn’t any family members you cared to invite and hers were back in America. Conventional enough, as these kind of stories go. _Common_ even. Hardly a _complex_ riddle, that.” Sherlock grabs for the box of latex gloves and sits in front of his microscope. 

His mind continues to barrel forward, even as he pretends to become absorbed in preparing his experiment. Once they find her, John will obviously want to resume their relationship. It may take a few months, depending on the circumstances that lead to her disappearance, but they will eventually move in together - start a family -

“Right. You’re right, but...” John sighs and puts his face in his hand. “You’ve the basics, yeah... But it's more complicated than that -”His other hand is on his hip. Sherlock has come to understand that this is John’s pose when he is extremely frustrated in a way that is difficult to express. A part of Sherlock hates that he notices these sorts of things - that he has wasted brain space on cataloging that (now useless) information about John. Why should he care about John’s frustration at all?

“It’s enough to be going on to solve the case,” Sherlock says dismissively, trying to wave John off with a flick of his hand. Hoping John will take the hint, as people generally do at this point, and walk away. His mind is whirring at lightning speed, scattering along a thousand paths, and his hands are moving, touching, fiddling with dials. 

Then everything stops. 

John’s hand has wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist and it is gently yet firmly halting Sherlock's flurry of activity. He looks up at John sharply ready to spit a venomous comment.

“Please.” John sinks into the chair beside Sherlock, not letting go. “Just let me… I want you to understand. I know you’re angry with me for not telling you - for _everything_ -”

“I’m not!” Sherlock protests as he yanks back his hand. His eyes narrow on John as he realises that he is doing nothing to provide evidence contrary to John’s assumption but, as much as he’d like to be cool and indifferent, he can’t seem to hide how he’s feeling at the moment. Everything is still too raw.

John lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. OK. You're not. But if you _were_ angry - _if_ you were... I’d understand, and I’d - you know, I’d deserve that… I should have stepped up sooner - cleared the air before I-” His gaze drops to Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock grimaces and looks away to hide the flush overtaking him. With that simple look, John has triggered an the echo of that frisson that crackled through Sherlock when their lips were pressed together. “You know, that’s on me. I cocked it all up, Sherlock... But - even if you’re disgusted with me - hate me - I think you need to understand - understand _it all._ I owe you that, right?”

Sherlock sits in silence a moment, staring at the familiar wallpaper; an anchor in this unfamiliar situation. He wants to be furious - at himself, at John, at the whole bloody world. He wants to go back to not caring - not engaging. Alone may be lonely but at least it was safe. However, there doesn’t seem any way out but through. He takes a deep breath, lifts his gaze to meet John's and gives a small, begrudging nod.

John straightens his shoulders and there is a look on his face like a soldier marching into battle; somber and grim - accepting of his own dismal fate. He nods back and then begins reciting the facts. 

“We married on a Saturday in May and the following Tuesday is when she disappeared. It was just an ordinary Tuesday, nothing special. She left the flat early - had classes, then practicum and she told me that'd keep her all night and not to wait up.” His eyes flick to Sherlock, then away again. The emotionless way he recounts the events, eyes going distant and dark, it is clear he has gone over and over this in his mind. 

“The next evening, when I'd just started to wonder when she'd be home, there was a knock on the door - it was the police. They said a woman that met Mary's description had been spotted by a passing motorist at the site of an accident on A41 the previous evening. The motorist had stopped to offer help, but the woman said a tow was on the way, so they'd went on home and called emergency services to let them know of the accident. Police arrived twenty minutes later to find the car abandoned. No one was around. They traced the car, a rental, back to Mary. Our flat was the listed address on her form.” John looks down at his own hands a moment. The left one is trembling slightly. He flexes it against his thigh and that’s when Percy pushes himself against John's legs, begging for attention. John reaches down and scoops him up, taking a few moments to stroke him before beginning again.

“I tried to explain to them how bizarre it all was. It didn't make sense... Why would she rent a car and drive up towards Northchurch? She'd only been in England less than a year. No family here. Her only friends were there at uni - we didn't know anyone up that way... Besides, she was supposed to be doing practicum at the time and hadn’t said a word to me about any change in plans.” John's gaze drifts to a place just over Sherlock's shoulder, distant and unfocused, and Sherlock knows he is recalling that long ago conversation. Flickers of confusion and fear travel over his face. At last he sighs, and looks back down at Percy in his lap. His hands have never stopped stroking the little kitten idly.

“The police were convinced it was her. The car had been in her name and the woman the passer-by described sure sounded like Mary… She hadn’t come home yet - seemed pretty clear to them. But they weren't going to assume she was a _‘missing person’_ \- not just yet. They told me I should give it a few days - sometimes a person shows up, after a day or two, with a perfectly reasonable explanation. They suggested that maybe she decided to take a trip, met up with a friend, or went back home to America… absurd stuff, if they knew her - how careful and organised she was... But they didn’t seem all that concerned.” John sinks his fingers into Percy's fur, and the cat purrs appreciatively. It’s clear he needs something to steady himself for the next part. His calm facade is degrading steadily as he continues to speak.

“I went looking for her, of course. At the labs - all the places she might be - I talked to people that might have seen her. And slowly… everything I thought I knew just... sort of... unraveled.” John takes a deep breath and shifts in his seat, causing a little _‘reeeow’_ of protest from Percy. Though he doesn't lift his head, his eyes pop open and flick up to John, his annoyance clear. 

“It's alright, love,” he whispers to Percy. John makes soothing sounds as he spreads his hand over the kitten, stroking and scratching him until he goes back to purring.

Sherlock shudders and has to look away. He is aware that the way John sometimes lovingly coos over Percy does things to his insides. From the first time he watched John look so adoringly and speak so sweetly to Percy at his bedsit, it opened up a dark chasm of need Sherlock had managed to ignore all these years. He'd never seen such genuine and open affection - it certainly wasn't the way of his parents or family. It filled him with yearning for gentle touches and hushed, sweetly affectionate words - for John to dote over him in a similar manner. 

He despises this weakness at the best of times, but in this moment, it’s all so horribly distracting. He decides that maybe they both need a little more space. He rises and walks over to the worktop to make tea. He feels John’s eyes tracking him as he fills the kettle and puts it on to boil. As Sherlock pulls down mugs from the cabinets, John clears his throat and begins again.

“She lied to me,” he says quietly. “She never went to class. She begged off - told her professor she had a family emergency and would be gone for a week. All those hours of her last day and no one knows what she was doing, where she’d gone, why she would go - go without telling anyone. Without telling _me_ , her husband.” 

Sherlock can't help but cringe at the word - he hides it by reaching for the tea bags and is grateful that John continues, appearing not to notice his reaction. 

“I tried to call her family in America, thinking maybe there really had been an emergency, and she just hadn’t had the time to tell me, but their phone just rang out. Again and again. Like they’d disappeared too. The more I tried to dig into her past, to find some lead or connection that would help me find her, the more I realised that I didn't know a thing about her - her past - her friends from before. Nothing really. Nothing about who she _really_ was…” Sherlock turns and leans back against the worktop, watching John's expression grow tighter and tighter.

“A week later, without any contact from her, I went back to the police and was shocked that they wouldn’t talk to me anymore. No details, anyways. They said that I wasn’t her husband. They’d checked for paperwork - there was nothing.”

“She's not your wife.” Sherlock blurts out and immediately turns back to the worktop to hide the flush of embarrassment and shame. Those words were so selfishly laced with relief and hope that John can't have missed what Sherlock was thinking.

“No. Not legally. I don’t know if the papers for our marriage were never filed or if somehow… maybe someone destroyed it? But it's like it never happened. I had no rights. I kept pressing them to pursue the case, but it wasn't a priority and they quickly started looking at me like maybe I was a crazy person. They threatened to consider me a prime suspect if I didn’t bugger off and let them be. I started to - I don’t know - go a bit mad with it. You know you start to question everything… Wonder if she’d ever existed at all. It was like I had married a ghost ” 

John gives a dry bark of laughter. “As if that isn't some tabloid tosh. But everything about it - she just up and disappeared without a trace within a twenty minute window. So’d her family - and her past - well, the closer I tried to look it... I went looking for clues among her stuff - contacts - friends or family. We'd just moved to a shared flat, so a lot was still in boxes, but everything - well anything personal - was gone. I don't know when or how - if she took it with her that day she disappeared or if someone had broken into the flat. Things just went missing. Not a lot of things - not so much you’d notice right off - but personal stuff. Photos of her, of us together. As if she was being erased. I was half convinced I was insane near the end.” John's voice has taken on a strange quality; hushed and intense. When he looks up at Sherlock, their eyes meet and Sherlock feels that John could be the definition of haunted.

They both jump as the kettle screeches. Percy is so alarmed by John's reaction that he launches from John's lap, skitters to one side of the kitchen, then turns and dashes back out to the sitting room with the frantic urgency of his tail being on fire. 

“Shit!” John exclaims in alarm and defeat. Their eyes meet and Sherlock finds a small grin trying to twitch up the corner of his lip at the absurdity of Percy's overreaction. They laugh together, a bit tensely, but it feels like a bit of relief from the dark cloud of emotion hanging over them. "Didn't mean to-"

"He'll be fine," Sherlock says, cutting in on John's guilt. He prepares John's tea precisely as he likes it, then brings the two mugs to the table. "Of course, he'll forgive you for the distress eventually. He's far too fond of you to hold a grudge forever." 

He hands John's mug to him and seats himself beside John again, holding his own mug. When he looks up at John, there is a strange mix of hope and questioning in his eyes and Sherlock realises John is hoping that he'd been speaking of himself as well as Percy with that statement - that Sherlock will forgive John too, eventually. 

He will, _of course._ No matter the outcome, he won't be able to hold it against John for long. But he certainly hadn't wanted John to see this. He looks away and clears his throat.

“You joined the army to distance yourself from your previous life?"

"Yeah. Afghanistan is about as distant as you can get, right?" John brings the mug to his lips, blowing to cool the liquid. He looks over the mug at Sherlock. There's a crooked smile of amusement on his face but his eyes are sad. "She sort of burned me down to the ground when she disappeared - I had nothing. Burned all my bridges, drove everyone away, became obsessed and furious because I was so impotent. I'd had a life. A future. I imagined I’d found the person I was going to build the rest of it with. Then it all just fell through my fingers. Nothing made sense... had to find myself again..." John puts the mug on the table and leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at Sherlock. His voice is quiet, almost confessional.

“My therapist accuses me of trust issues - thinks it was the war that made me this way. I do... I do find it difficult to trust... but the truth is, it was Mary. Mary made me paranoid, afraid to be happy, afraid to let others in. I don't want to give her that power over me anymore, Sherlock. This needs to be over. One way or another I need to close that chapter of my life and move on _with_...” John trails off and looks up at Sherlock, and his face is expectant and hopeful. Sherlock thinks he surely must have missed something of the conversation because John seems to be asking something with the unspoken conclusion of that sentence.

"With?"

"With _you,_ Sherlock. If you'll have me... I'd like to move onto a life _here_... with you... And Percy, at Baker Street." John's smile is warm and genuine. Fragile and beautiful in its own right.

"Oh." Sherlock blinks and blinks, shock rolling through him in waves. After a long moment staring at that smile, miraculously meant for him, Sherlock blinks and looks down. “Right, of course.” Sherlock's hands wrap around the warm cup to keep them from reaching for John’s hand instead. He stares down at the tea for a long moment, watching it ripple and thinking about causality... how small disruptions can ripple out infinitely... how all the things that broke John led him here to Baker Street, to Sherlock, for them to pick up the shattered pieces and make something new from them - _together._


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock startles. Something had bumped him - that’s what had brought him back from his mind palace. He’s not sure how long he has been standing in front of the sitting room wall, staring at the sparse clues of the case pinned to it, but the flat has fallen dark and the street is quiet. John went upstairs, saying he might have a few more helpful things in old boxes, but that was at least a couple of hours ago now. Sherlock looks around the dark room and feels it again, a paw insistently batting at his leg. No sooner does he catch sight of the little kitten, then Percy lets loose a long, low, pained cry that Sherlock hasn’t heard him make before.

“What? What is it?” Sherlock asks, alarmed, then feels a bit ridiculous for asking a kitten to explain. He reaches down to scoop up the kitten but, surprisingly, Percy darts away from him. He stops at the door of the sitting room, looks back at Sherlock, and lets out another wrenching cry. Then he flies up the steps to John's room. 

Sherlock hesitates, feeling unsettled by the strange occurrence. Then he takes a breath and cautiously follows Percy's path up the stairs into John's bedroom.

Sherlock can hear John before he even reaches the top of the stairs; pained grunts and choked moans. As he slips inside the room and approaches the bed, it becomes obvious that John had fallen asleep while sifting through his old materials related to Mary. There are photos and newspaper clippings scattered on the far side of the bed. John is stretched out on the side closest to the door, on his stomach, as if he collapsed in the middle of his task from pure exhaustion. He is in the throes of an apparent nightmare; his legs and arms are twitching, his hands are clawing at the sheets, and his face is twisted in fear and terror. It's been going on awhile, by the looks of it. His light brown hair has been darkened by sweat and is clinging to the sides of his head and sticking up in patches, as if he has been pulling at it. Sherlock freezes, horrified by the strangled sound of his own name from John's lips.

"John?” Sherlock reaches out and places a hand on John's shoulder, gently shaking him.

“No. No! God, no!” John thrashes his way to consciousness, wrestling violently against some imaginary foe, twisting around. Sleep suddenly releases him and then he's lunging forward and tackling Sherlock to the bed, covering him with his own body. 

There is a confused moment of scrambling. Sherlock grabs a fist full of John's vest, trying to protect himself by holding John close enough to impede him, genuinely concerned he's about to be pummeled in place of whomever or whatever John is meant to be fighting in his subconscious. But then John goes very still and Sherlock knows he must be awake. He turns his face into Sherlock's shoulder and says Sherlock's name so softly and with such grief that Sherlock gentles his hold, flattening his hand on John's sweat-damp back. In seconds, John's whole body is trembling on top of Sherlock. A broken sound escapes and then John's arms are curling around him, desperately hugging him tighter, as if terrified Sherlock might disappear.

“John?” Sherlock ventures after the cascade of quiet sobs muffled against his shoulder trail off into a drawn out, miserable moan. 

“Oh, god. Oh, god. I'm sorry. Just give me a moment. I just need - need to be sure…” John pulls back and runs his shaking hands carefully down Sherlock's arms. Then he moves back up and sinks them into Sherlock's hair, moving slowly, carefully over every inch of his scalp. As John's palms smooth over Sherlock's chest, Sherlock at last gets past the shock enough to realise what is happening here. John is methodically checking him for wounds. However, knowing the platonic reason for John's actions, doesn't stop the heat that shoots through him at having John's hands on his body or stop the way his breath comes out short.

When John's hands move down to his waist and curl around his flanks, Sherlock works his mouth open and closed until words finally spill out. “John, I don't think-” _Can't think,_ if he's honest. God, he wants John to keep touching him. He wants more - _everything_ \- but not like _this._ Not with John broken and haunted. Not on a nest of the artifacts of his life with Mary.

“Yeah, ok. Ok. Ok. You're fine,” John's muttering, obviously still trying to convince himself. He takes Sherlock by the shoulders and pulls him up to sitting, as he sits back. “You're - you're not hurt. I didn't hurt you, did I?” 

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, staring with wide eyes at John. He is shaking a little himself; adrenaline and arousal twitching through his system.

John runs a shaky hand through his hair and grips the corner of the duvet in the other. “Shit. Right. Yeah. Ok. They're not usually that bad. I'm not - not usually -” His breath quivers out on an exhale and he finally meets Sherlock's gaze. “I'm sorry. That was bad. I haven't had one like that in a while."

“I'm fine, John,” Sherlock says, at last recovering from the shock and trying to appear unaffected, for both their sakes. “Your unconscious is bound to play some nasty tricks on you after dredging up something that was obviously a significant source of trauma and distress.”

John lets out another breath as he looks down at his own lap. He nods in agreement. “Right. Yeah. I guess I should have expected…” He nods again. “Thank you… for - for undertaking this, for me.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies. They just sit there together in silence, letting themselves settle and calm. After a few moments, Sherlock speaks. He begins quietly, uncertain if this is something he is allowed ask, but it feels important since John's nightmare obviously had to do with him, “May I enquire what the dream pertained to?”

John looks up at him, then back down at the scattering of photos. He twists the duvet in both hands and swallows roughly. “It was… good… at first. I was running, chasing you through the streets of London. But then… you were getting away and I kept feeling heavier and heavier. Like I was wearing thirty kilos of gear. Everything started to shift around us and then I suddenly realised we were… it was this village in Afghanistan. I tried to shout for you - warn you it wasn't safe - but then you were so far ahead and I lost you around this building. When I finally made it to where you'd disappeared, it wasn't an alley but a door. I yanked it open and Mary was standing there in her wedding dress. And she… she… shit.” John takes a deep breath, obviously still distraught over the dream. “She had a gun. And she lifted it and pointed it… it was aimed at you. She was pointing it right at you and I couldn't-” John buries his face in his hands again and shakes. Through his fingers, choked noises escape that slice straight into Sherlock's chest.

“I'm alright, John. It wasn't real. A trick of the brain, nothing more.” He hopes these things are comforting but he can't be sure.

John pulls in several deep breaths before he flops back against his pillows, arms flung wide. 

“Christ, I'm exhausted.” He rubs his hand over his eyes, then looks down his own body to Sherlock at the foot of the bed. “Can you… can you maybe stay for a bit?”

Sherlock looks down at his own lap, a swell of feelings corking the words within his chest for a moment. It doesn't seem wise to lay down with John. Last time they'd been in a bed together Sherlock had kissed him... and he'd wanted _more_ than a kiss. And he really shouldn't... 

John must see the doubt on Sherlock's face because he grimaces, his face flashing with embarrassment and guilt before he lifts his gaze to Sherlock with a raw expression of desperation. 

“Just until I fall asleep, yeah? I think… I think if I could see you… maybe I could trick my brain into dreaming something better.” He sits up a little and pushes the clippings and photos scattered over the bed into a pile on top of a manilla folder. “Here, you can… um… look at those, maybe? See if they're any help on the case.” His eyes dart over Sherlock, his expression pulled tight as if he hates himself for asking for this - needing this - but he just can't help it. 

“Of course, the case,” Sherlock murmurs mostly to himself, as he plucks up the file then folds his legs crosswise under himself on the foot of the bed. He can feel John's gaze on him as he begins to lay the items out in a semi-circle in front of himself. As he turns his focus to the photos and documents, he hears John shift in the bed and soon he can tell, by the change in John's breathing, that he has once again drifted off to sleep. 

He spends a few minutes examining the photos, most of which are shots of a stretch of road next to some dark woods. Nothing - why would John bother...? _Oh._ Sherlock realises this must be where Mary's car had been abandoned. John had visited not just once, but many times, at different times of the year, going by the change of light and colour of the grass. Some were taken at night, others at midday. It is as if he had been attempting to at least make peace with the last place she had been seen, if he couldn't have the certainty of knowing what had happened to her. 

He is about to lay the last of these photos aside when something catches his eye, a flash of light in one of the darker images, possibly someone or - no - _something_ had been watching John. A camera? A large one. Well hidden. Cameras aren't usually found in an innocuous landscape, unless the landscape isn't so innocuous. There are at least three possibilities, the most likely of the three also being the most dangerous. 

Sherlock rubs his eyes and realises that he is completely knackered. With the time he spent on the last case, and with the emotional upheaval that accompanies their new one, he just needs a couple of hours sleep, and then he can begin to deal with whatever the photo in his hand means. He isn't in any shape to deal with it right now. 

Distracted and feeling heavy with exhaustion, he gathers the photos together, returning them to the folder, and placing it on the old trunk at the end of the bed. He knows that he probably should go downstairs to his own bed, but John seems so peaceful and he doesn't want him to wake up, find Sherlock gone - he'd likely panick again.

He carefully crawls over to the empty side of John's bed and settles down next to John, turning his back to him so as not to be too intrusive. He breathes out a sigh of relief, then goes still as an arm curls around his waist and pulls him back into the sleep-warm length of John's body. He waits, his entire body tense, for John to realise what he's done. __When the silence stretches, soft and languid, only disturbed by the quiet puffs of John's breaths, he realises John is still asleep and probably doesn't even know what he has done. He likely thinks Sherlock is someone else - a past lover, perhaps. It stands to reason that a man such as John has had many lovers and so is much more comfortable with this sort of casual intimacy because of them. Sherlock should probably extract himself and leave now but, as he listens to John's easy breathing against his shoulder, he finds it difficult not to relax into the comforting embrace, to close his eyes and let his mind go blank. He feels safe. No one has ever given him that feeling before.__

____

____

_Just a few moments, maybe. He'll wake and leave before John even knows._

As he drifts off to sleep, he is chased by a vague pang of sadness and fear that he is never going to have this with John for real if he succeeds in discovering what happened to Mary Morstan.

_______

Sherlock jolts awake to the loud hum of Percy's contented purr somewhere near his head. As his mind comes back online, it takes a moment to register where he is. He shifts carefully, so to not disturb the kitten, but he can already tell he's otherwise alone in John's bed. 

_Damn._ He hadn't meant for John to find him there when he woke up. Hopefully he hasn't messed things up.

"Hey." He turns towards the hushed voice. John is sitting on the edge of the bed looking soft and sleep mussed.

Sherlock rushes to explain, "John, I was just -" 

John holds up his hand to halt Sherlock's panicked flurry of words and shakes his head back and forth. He clears his throat, then speaks quietly, but clearly. "It's _fine._ I asked you to stay and you did. Been a long time since I had a nightmare that bad, and a long time since someone has helped me through it." John looks down, rubbing fingers over the back of his own neck with his lips pursed, as if considering saying more. He sighs then lifts his gaze to Sherlock. "Actually, you're the only one - since Mary - that is, I haven't been _with_ anyone since. Been difficult to let anyone close - let my guard down... So, thank you for last night. I won't, you know -" John gestures vaguely and looks away, embarrassment flooding his face. Sherlock finds that he wants to reassure him somehow. He should make his own confession. He takes a deep breath. 

"John, I think you should know that I'm... I'm-"

"Hungry?" John is clearly changing the subject, forcing a cheerful smile over his expression of worry. Sherlock, relieved for an escape from his own uncomfortable confession, nods in agreement and is surprised when his stomach answers as well with a rumble.

"Thought you might be," John grins, "Considering it's one in the afternoon."

"Oh." Sherlock blinks at him and sits up slowly. He feels every knot in his body from sleeping so long.

"I ordered take-away." John rises from the bed and walks towards the door. "You've just time enough for a shower before it gets here. Got the kettle on and -"

"John." John stops near the doorway and turns towards him. Sherlock gets to his feet and slowly approaches him. He stops in front of John, watching the complex emotions flutter over John's features. He should probably let the moment go - let John have the time and space to pull back on his armour so they can both go back to pretending this isn't the most vulnerable they've let themselves be with anyone in a long time. But this could all be over soon, when Mary is found, so he has to risk it. He takes a breath, then reaches out to lay his hand over John's chest. He focuses on the feeling of John's racing heartbeat under his fingertips. John flinches, just slightly, then relaxes, matching Sherlock's breathing. He covers Sherlock's hand with his own and stares up at him with eyes that begin to glisten with swelling emotion.

"Thank you," Sherlock says quietly. It's overused and never really feels sufficient when you need it to, but it's all he can think to say at the moment. "I didn't - I don't mind... and I can't remember the last time I slept so well.... Any time - I mean -" He feels his own face heat up as his words falter, and he has to look away. John's hand squeezes his reassuringly.

"Hey. It's alright." When Sherlock brings his eyes back to John he finds him nodding and smiling gently at him. "I know what you mean... We're okay, Sherlock." 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say more but the moment breaks as John looks down and chuckles at Percy who is winding between them. Having gained their attention, he trots off towards the kitchen. They both roll their eyes as they hear an indignant noise of protest as the kitten discovers an empty bowl. 

"Duty calls." John mutters, as he pulls Sherlock's hand from his chest and presses a kiss to the palm. As he releases Sherlock's hand he shifts uneasily and looks up from under his brow at Sherlock, as if he is unsure if he should have done that. 

Dazed by the sweet gesture, Sherlock closes his fingers around the spot John had kissed and brings it to his chest. He looks back at John, confused and conflicted, but nods and gives a tentative smile that he hopes is encouraging.

John looks at him a moment longer, then straightens. "Right," he says with a brisk nod and turns to follow Percy.

Sherlock stares at the warm tingly spot where John had kissed his palm. He places a trembling finger tip to his lips as he considers what that gesture means about the future - about John - about the choice John will have to make some day very soon about the life he wants and who he wants it with. Then he mentally shakes himself and heads to the bathroom. 

He turns on the hot water, allowing the steam to clear his head. As his focus returns, he turns his mind to the camera in the field near the last place Mary had been seen. Expensive. Advanced technology. Government - maybe military. Is it significant? Coincidence?

Rarely is the universe so lazy as to resort to coincidences. In Sherlock's experience, government matters that happen to fall in his lap always lead back to Mycroft's meddling.

Really, now that he considers it, it was absurd to believe his big brother would have been chastised enough by the first encounter with John and Percy as to not interfere. To what extent and for what purpose he has a hand in this matter, remains to be seen. It is certainly within his means to have given Lestrade this file in particular. Really, it's quite obvious when he considers it; the first case Lestrade brings them has to do with a missing person who just happens to be John's long lost wife. 

"Damn it, Mycroft," Sherlock mutters into the stream of water rushing over him. What is Mycroft trying to accomplish here? He obviously didn't care for John, so perhaps he thinks this case will be their undoing? Drive them apart? Sherlock blinks as the shampoo drifts into his eyes and burns. He swears silently to himself as he rinses the soap away, feeling like he's tipping over the edge into crying. It's absurd. He hasn't cried since he was a child, but the thought of Mycroft conspiring to rip John away and leave Sherlock miserable and alone, it is so awful.. and his eyes already sting. He splays his hands on the cold, tile wall and bows his head, just letting the water rush over him and enfold him in a liquid cocoon.

Eventually he turns his face up towards the shower head and lets it wash away any evidence of his break in control over his emotions. John will be waiting - with food and tea and expectations. 

As the water cleanses him, his thoughts sharpen once more. The emotion had distracted him; there's another layer to this. The government camera, the swiftness and efficiency of her disappearance, the destroyed official documents, the precision and thoroughness of the way she'd been erased from John's life, Mycroft's involvement now - clearly, the government was involved in Mary's disappearance.

Does he tell John? How can he _not?_ John has the right to know what Sherlock suspects. Still, against his better judgement, Sherlock hopes he is wrong about this. He turns it over again and again in his mind. As he turns off the water, leans against the wall and closes his eyes, there is little doubt left. Logically, the government is involved and now Mycroft is involved in this as well. He prays to a god (that he has always considered himself too logical to believe in) that Mycroft isn't responsible for Mary's disappearance... the destruction of John's life.

He dries off and dresses quickly then heads out into the sitting room where the welcome scent of his favourite curry reminds him how hungry he truly is. 

As he settles into a seat across from John, who is smiling as he tucks into his own plate of curry, he decides he can wait until after lunch to tell John of his suspicions.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breath4Soul: As repentance for being so horribly slow at updating this, I've done two chapters this go around!! Thanks for reading ❣️

The hum of asphalt beneath the tyres and John's rhythmic breathing from the driver's seat eases Sherlock into a kind of trance. He gazes, with unseeing eyes, out the window at the passing landscape and mentally traces backwards the path that lead them to this moment, until he reaches the place where it all began to diverge.

It was _Percy._  
Percy was the catalyst. 

Now that he's come to it, there can be no more accurate word to describe Percy than _‘catalyst,’_ in every sense of the term. By his mere presence, the little kitten seems to have the power to intensify the chemical reactions happening between Sherlock and John - to accelerate that natural coalescing. Sherlock is fairly certain that he and John wouldn't have come so far, so fast without Percy as part of the equation.

In this instance, it was Percy's habit of preferring to eat from John's plate that changed everything.

As soon as they'd taken their places at the table, Percy had abandoned his food bowl and leapt up onto the spare chair at the table, as if expecting to be served. When he hadn't been provide with his own plate, he’d leapt onto the table. Clearly trying his very best to be stealthy (but failing miserably), he'd inched closer to John. With a small smile, John had pushed a piece of curry chicken to the edge of his plate and continued eating, pretending not to notice as the little kitten slowly, ever so cautiously, crept over and batted the piece off onto the table. Percy had pounced on the proffered chicken and proudly scampered away, carrying it in his mouth. However, he'd only made it as far as the end of table. He'd quickly dropped the curry flavoured chicken, sniffed it, sneezed, shook his head back and forth vigorously, then dashed off to perch on the back of John's chair. 

He'd sat there on the back of John’s chair, cleaning his tainted paw thoroughly, all the while, sneezing and shooting glares at them both for their appalling choice of cuisine. 

Obviously he didn't care for the spices. 

John had giggled so much he'd nearly fallen out of his chair. When the laughter had died down, his eyes had glittered with pure delight and his smile had been so gentle and openly fond that Sherlock had felt sick with the thought of how his conclusions about Mary's disappearance would destroy the beautiful man before him.

That was all it had taken for Sherlock to re-evaluate everything he had been so confident in only moments earlier. For the remainder of the meal, Sherlock pensively pushed his food around the plate as he ran over everything again and again… It was certainly worth reconsidering his previous conclusions - if for no other reason than the fact that he was painfully aware that he had drawn quite a few faulty conclusions lately.

What he had, when it came down to it, were some facts that seemed to align themselves and point at a logical (though horrifying) conclusion. However, as Lestrade had spent years hammering into him, there could be no case without _evidence._ Surely John would want evidence. He had very little to speak of in that department - just the glint of glass in the trees on a grainy photo. That could be anything - _nothing,_ really. If he was wrong about _that_ … well, the whole narrative he'd constructed in his head fell apart.

The more he thought about it the more he became certain that he couldn't tell John - not just _yet._ Not until there was proof. 

That's why they are currently in a rented SUV, winding their way up A41 towards the site of Mary's accident. If it is, as Sherlock fears, a matter of government involvement, then there will be evidence - more than a camera in the trees. They only need to-

“Sherlock?” There's a gentle squeeze of Sherlock's forearm, and Sherlock blinks himself back to the present to find John withdrawing his hand. Sherlock glimpses the mix of old pain and sadness in John’s eyes as he turns them back to the road ahead. He firmly grips the wheel with both hands and points, with a thrust of his chin, out the front window. “Round the next curve.” His voice is flat. He’s obviously working very hard to keep all emotion out of it, which means that revisiting this site, where he had come repeatedly - desperately seeking answers, is affecting John more than he wants to let on. John’s eyes are dark and his throat keeps working, as if he can't quite swallow. His shoulders are high and tight, his mouth is pulled down in a grimace, and his knuckles are white from how hard he's gripping the steering wheel. 

Sherlock feels a surge of - _something_ uncomfortable and unfamiliar. It's constricting his chest as he turns his eyes back to the road ahead. They round the curve where Mary's car had driven off the road and John begins to slow so that they can pull off onto the shoulder.

“No. Keep going,” Sherlock orders, twisting in his seat to scan the woods outside his window. “But slowly.”

“Sorry, what are we looking for?” 

“I'll know it when I see it. Keep going.” They drive slowly past the site where Mary's car had been found. 

The trees are tall and barren, with gnarled branches stretching over the road and tangling together in a way that makes them seem imposing - unwelcoming. They are thickly clustered together so that the casual gaze can't penetrate very far into them from the road. However, the more Sherlock looks at them, the more he's able to pick out the unnatural pattern of fallen branches and thick shrubbery meant to disguise a man made perimeter; likely some sort of electrified fencing. Then he sees the cameras; smaller, since the technology has advanced, and well camouflaged. They're mounted to trees every few meters. As they roll forward, he traces the perimeter with his gaze until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Here. Turn in here.” Sherlock gestures at a drive that appears to be little more than some deep tire ruts and packed down dirt just off the road. It winds into the trees and disappears after a few meters. John pulls onto it and looks over at Sherlock as he comes to a stop, awaiting an explanation or further instructions.

Sherlock only glances at John, finding his expression anxious, eagerly searching his own, and full of questions he knows he can't answer just yet. He quickly looks away, studying the road instead. The tire tracks on the drive are too deep and the treads are too thick to be from a civilian vehicle. This would align with a military operation, however, there's something - something that's not quite right. The thrill of seeing everything slotting neatly into place and theories being confirmed, is balanced against the awareness that something is… _off._ He can't put his finger on it.

“This drive was here when she disappeared?” Sherlock states more than asks. 

John’s gaze sweeps over the drive and he wets his lips with a dart of his tongue before speaking. “Yeah. Um... I think... I mean- Yeah... used it to turn around once, but didn’t seem anyone was around and -” John gestures at a sign nailed to the tree by the drive announcing that they are trespassing on private property and no solicitors are permitted. 

“Excellent.” He forces his expression to remain neutral, and his eyes to focus intently on the road. There's no turning back now. “Proceed.” 

They slowly roll forward, their car rocking in the uneven ruts, as the woods close in around them. There are more posted signs that are both ominous and enlightening. They warn them off in a vaguely threatening manner with declarations that they are on private property, that the place is under security protection, and that they are under video surveillance. Sherlock has no doubt that they've been monitored from the moment they slowed down. 

After the drive makes a turn into the woods and is hidden from the road, it becomes more defined, widens, and transitions from dirt into well-maintained pavement. Then the signs take on a different tone; stating that a valid pass must be presented and that vehicles will be inspected.

“You brought your military ID?” Sherlock reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and extracts a black leather wallet. 

“Um… yeah.” John keeps his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel as he rummages around in the inside pocket of his own coat. He pulls out his military ID, then glances at Sherlock as he holds it out. “Right. What's it for?”

Sherlock tips his head towards the large metal gate that blocks the path ahead. A bright red sign states in thick black letters, **WARNING: Restricted Area. It is unlawful to enter this area without the permission of the Installation Commander. Use of deadly force authorized.**

“Sherlock?” John's voice betrays his uneasiness as he lets the vehicle slowly roll to a stop in front of the gate. He turns towards Sherlock and there is a swirl of questions written plainly on his features.

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, his eyes moving from John to lock onto the small building flanking the gate that is visible behind John. A man in an all black uniform with a small red insignia stitched on the breast that looks like a bloody fist has just stepped out of the little brown building. He is holding a military grade semi-automatic with the ease of experience. 

Though he tries to give no outward signs, Sherlock's heart begins beating rapidly against the inside of his chest and the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as he processes this unanticipated threat. 

This isn't _quite_ what Sherlock suspected. 

_Not military._  
_Not at all._  
_Much worse than **that.**_

The guard steps up to the car, leans over, and taps the muzzle of his gun against the window. John, who has his back to the building and so hadn't seen anyone emerge, jumps at the sharp sound and whips around. His eyes go wide and he goes very still at the sight of the large gun leveled at him.

“Window down,” the guard orders, and John complies immediately; pressing the button so the window slides all the way down. His hands automatically lift slightly, hovering above the steering wheel.

“Pass,” the guard demands, peering into the car. His eyes travel over them with practised suspicion. Sherlock reaches over John to hand the guard the black leather wallet. The guard takes it and extends his hand towards John, who finally catches on and gives over his military ID as well. 

“Thank you. Remain here.” The guard gives a sharp nod and returns to the building.

“Sherlock?” John inquires quietly. “Are they-” Sherlock lifts a hand, halting John’s words. At the front of the vehicle, another man in the same black uniform has appeared with a large German Shepherd. The man is directing the sniffer dog to inspect the vehicle with sharp commands and hand gestures. It only takes him a few moments to circle the car and inspect it to his satisfaction.

“Clear,” the man with the sniffer dog declares, and he moves back into the woods. 

“Paramilitary,” Sherlock says quietly, continuing to evaluate the threats around them. “Militarized force with the same scope, structure and function as the army, but not formally part of any government's armed forces.” His eyes are now fixed on the guard in the building who is currently on the phone whilst gazing down at their IDs in his hand. There is a chance this won’t work. It had been an absurd risk when he had suspected this was a secret military base, but _paramilitary_ is a different beast altogether. 

“Not formal?”

“No. _Off the books,_ so to speak. Dirty little secret.” It's almost a snarl, full of distaste at Mycroft's exploits. He _has_ miscalculated. His anxiety is mounting the longer it takes for the guard with the IDs to return... but he turns it into anger at Mycroft and uses it to make himself sharper and harder for the task ahead. 

“Brilliant! We’re going to get shot,” John mutters through gritted teeth, looking over at the booth as well. “You don’t just waltz up to the gate of some secret paramilitary compound, Sherlock.” His voice is hushed and tight. He seems to be working himself up into a proper fear-fueled fury. His hand is flexing open and closed against his thigh. His foot is fidgeting on the break. He glances over at the shifter, then back at the guard. Sherlock can almost see the plan of how to get them out of this forming in John’s head; a plan to throw a punch, slam the vehicle in reverse, and floor it. 

_That would be very unwise._

There are at least five more men with guns in the woods, monitoring the perimeter. They won’t make it seven meters before the SUV is riddled with bullets. 

Sherlock reaches over and covers John’s hand with his own, trapping John's hand and pushing it flat to the top of John’s thigh. John’s eyes snap to him, wide with surprise. It is John’s expression of shock that makes Sherlock realise the significance of that touch - the unintentional intimacy of it. Though John has placed a hand on him several times as a means of comfort or grounding, Sherlock has never done so for John. 

He shouldn't overstep boundaries, for both their sakes. It would be unfair to complicate things and make John’s inevitable choice to return to Mary (once she is found) any more difficult or damaging than it has to be. But it can't be helped now. He’ll just have to reinforce boundaries later - when their lives _aren’t_ hanging in the balance. 

Sherlock gives a shake of his head back and forth - mouth set in a stern expression to communicate that he knows what John is planning and that he shouldn't try it. He quickly withdraws his hand and turns his eyes to the woods again. He can feel John still watching him. 

“Not likely,” he says, continuing the conversation from before, as if the touch never happened. He makes his voice light; casual and confident. “Deadly force is rarely employed, unless _provoked._ ”

It is not a lie. A highly trained and disciplined force such as this is far too smart for that sort of rash reaction, unless they’re left with no other choice. No, if at all possible, they’d want to contain and analyse the threat. They'd choose to physically incapacitate them, then there'd be interrogation - perhaps, torture. Days to work out an escape or -

“Sherlock?” There’s an edge of warning to the question, so Sherlock turns to look at John. He is watching the guard who has just stepped out of the booth with their IDs in hand. Sherlock relaxes a little as he notes that the guard’s posture is less tense and he isn't raising his gun. The gate in front of them is also slowly starting to slide open. 

John obviously doesn't pick up on these small signs. He has both hands on the wheel and is sitting rigidly, eyes fixed straight ahead, apparently expecting the worst and trying to avoid any provocation.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes, Captain Watson.” The guard leans down and hands them their IDs through the window. He does a quick solute to John and gestures them on. “Straight through, sir.” 

John eases them forward through the gate. He glances in the rearview mirror, watching the heavy metal gate slide closed behind them. They are several meters away before John lets out a breath and sags a little.

“Christ,” he huffs. He shakes his head back and forth, eyes wide in disbelief. “How in the -” He reaches out and clasps Sherlock's wrist of the hand that is holding the ID wallet. “What kind of ID have you got that’s a pass for _this_ place?” Sherlock let's him pull his hand closer. 

“Mycroft’s.” He tilts his wrist so the wallet flips open to reveal the ID stating, _‘Mycroft Holmes. Unlimited Access.’_

“Right,” John gives an exasperated laugh and shakes his head back and forth. “Don’t suppose he leant it to you?” He looks up at Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow. 

“No easy task, given my brother's natural propensity towards paranoia.” A devious and triumphant smile spreads over Sherlock's lips. He had mostly done it for the challenge at the time. However, he's quite proud of the feat, especially now that it has served a purpose _other than_ inconveniencing his brother. “Pride is the downfall. Though he had to have discovered its absence within hours of my departure, Mycroft has apparently refused to flag it as lost.”

“Why am I not surprised?” John's expression is both slightly reprimanding and openly fond. “Going to have to keep a guard on my valuable bits with these light fingers about.” His fingers are still encircling Sherlock's wrist and he gives it a gentle squeeze. The tilt of his mouth and spark in his eyes says he's teasing.

Sherlock feels his face grow warm and he clears his throat as he pulls his hand away. He barely glimpses John’s little wince of self-reprimand as he turns his face away. The air becomes tense as they both look out at the compound surrounding them, now keenly aware that they are in enemy territory. 

The grounds are buzzing with soldiers in fatigues running drills. There is heavy military equipment and the buildings are the same squat, beige squares you'd find on any military base. All and all, it would seem an unremarkable military base if not for the men in the black informs mixed in among the soldiers.

“Christ,” John says again, with more force as he runs his eyes over the unit of soldiers marching past. “What are we doing here, Sherlock?” He pulls them up to a concrete barrier in front of the main complex and puts the vehicle into park. 

“Paying a visit… _and_ proving a theory.” 

John's jaw sets as he eyes the guns visible on several of the men. His voice is low and grim. “It’s one thing to use Lestrade’s badge on a thief, Sherlock, but _this_ \- this is... Christ, if these guys catch us here-”

“In and out before they even know we've come.” Sherlock says briskly, with false confidence. He opens the door, steps out of the SUV, and begins striding towards the building before John has a chance to ask any more questions or object. 

Within a few steps, John has fallen in beside him. As they walk towards the building, Sherlock looks around at all the military men patrolling the area and considers how difficult escape could become if things don't go as planned. The quick mental calculations put it near impossible. There can be no room for errors or missteps here. They must get in and out as quickly and quietly as possible. 

However, before they can reach the entrance of the main building, a Jeep comes speeding up and a soldier, in the same black uniform as the guards, jumps out and rushes up to them.

“What is it? Are we in trouble?” The young man demands. He’s flustered and indignant, his eyes searching them defensively. He sets himself in their path and holds up his hands to prevent them from going any further.

“‘Are we in trouble’, _sir,_ ” John corrects sternly and Sherlock can't help looking over at him in shock at the shift in tone and demeanor. Everything about John now exudes quiet authority. His posture has changed, and his eyes are fixed on the young soldier with a hard stare that holds the expectation of immediate compliance. He takes out his wallet and flips it open for the soldier to see. 

“Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Even before he finishes speaking, the young soldier comes to attention and salutes him. 

“Corporal Lyons, security.” 

John crisply returns the salute and then his eyes immediately move past the young man in a sort of dismissal. “Mr. Holmes here requires an inspection of this facility, Corporal.” He begins to step forward past Lyons, but the Corporal moves in front of him, hands up again. John draws up short and lifts an eyebrow in an expression that asks, without a word, _‘who the hell do you think you are?’_ and it's like he's miraculously grown two feet taller, somehow looming over the Corporal that is the same height as himself. It's quite impressive and Sherlock is openly staring in shock now. He makes no attempt to disguise it because neither man is paying him any mind.

“It’s just... we don’t get inspected _here,_ sir. Not _us._ It just doesn’t happen.”

John's eyes narrow on the Corporal. “Everyone is subject to inspection, Corporal.” He exudes a quiet, steely strength. It makes Sherlock aware of his own heart thumping against the inside of his chest.

The corporal hesitates, lips pressed together in a thin line as his eyes dart over John's face. The moment holds; tense and heated. A new sensation stirs in Sherlock's gut, twisting up his insides. He struggles to swallow and the words burst out of him before he has time to consider if it is properly in keeping with their disguise.

“New policy. Can’t remain unmonitored forever,” Sherlock interjects, voice falsely light to break the tension between the two men. He realises, belatedly, that he's taken a small step forward, as if to physically interject himself between them as well. 

John intense gaze rakes over Sherlock a moment, and his face is surprisingly unreadable for a man that usually wears every emotion plainly enough that _even Sherlock_ can pick up on them. It makes Sherlock, who has faced killers and criminals aplenty, unaccountably chastened. Something new and odd shivers through his system and he automatically lowers his chin and eyes, barely restraining himself from stepping back. He feels John's stare leave him, like a tangible warm, subduing blanket being pulled off. 

“Tour,” John states firmly.

“Sir, Major Barrymore won't-”

“That’s an order, Corporal,” John snaps.

“Yes, sir.” Lyons, pulls his shoulders back and clicks his heels together. He pivots and strides towards the entrance. 

As they follow Corporal Lyons to the main building, Sherlock looks over at John by his side and wonders at the surprising and impressive demonstration he just witnessed. Sherlock is a good actor - _great_ even - when he needs to be, but he never anticipated John could surpass his skills in performance. It was flawless - fooling even Sherlock on some subconscious level (that he hadn't anticipated and likely should examine further at some point). 

Even now, John shows complete commitment to the character. Sherlock studies him, transfixed by the nuance of this act. It seems as if he's managed to change himself on the molecular level; an inner fire of discipline, purpose, confidence, and authority radiating from his every pore. There's a soft curl of satisfaction to his lips, he’s holding his shoulders straighter, his chin higher, and he’s almost swaggering. He truly seems... _transformed._

John must feel Sherlock's stare, because he turns to catch Sherlock's gaze and his lips spread up into a deliciously warm and precocious grin. It's self-assured and charming and it throws Sherlock so off balance that he nearly loses a step. 

“Enjoyed that, did you? Pulling rank.” It’s a pointed remark, meant to get Sherlock back on solid ground by making John (soft and unassuming John) come over embarrassed by the notion that he might get some enjoyment from taking control and bossing others around.

“Immensely,” John retorts, unabashed, eyes never leaving Sherlock's, and something in the deep undertone of his voice and the heat in his look is suggestive. Sherlock’s eyebrows launch into his fringe. 

_No,_ that was _not_ a performance - it was a _revelation_ \- a new side of John exposed. Though he has seemed content to follow Sherlock's lead up to this point, and defer to him at every juncture, he clearly has the capacity to take charge and he carries that authority easily and with as much casual familiarity as the guard at the gate holds his gun; a weapon he can take aim with or avert at will.

There's something about that thought that is exhilarating - intoxicating even. _This_ John is deliciously dangerous. Sherlock is completely out of his depth. He is so taken aback by this new side of John, he can't even string together a clever response. He presses his lips together, clears his throat, fixes his eyes on the Corporal’s head to buy some time. When he opens his mouth to say something suitably off-putting (about not being fond of rules or those that inflict them on others) John cuts him off.

“Don't worry. Strategic deployment. Used with discretion.” John's tone is pitched lower and clearly salacious. Sherlock’s eyes must be as wide as saucers as he looks over at John. He's certain he's never been so shocked in his life.

John just lifts an eyebrow and then actually has the nerve to _wink_ at Sherlock. Sherlock's mind derails completely with that bold and casually flirtatious little gesture. Possibilities unfold in Sherlock's mind; a carousel of flashing images, spinning faster and faster. Heat floods his entire system and he has to look straight ahead, willing himself to focus on just following the Corporal. 

At the entrance, Lyons swipes his pass through a reader, then waits for Sherlock to walk over and do the same with his own pass. ACCESS GRANTED flashes on the reader’s screen. Lyons presses a button, and the locks on the door disengage. Sherlock stares at the words on the screen, sobered by what they mean. He looks down at his watch, calculating how long they have until that notification is flagged and sent to Mycroft. 

_Twenty minutes at best._

“We’ll start with the records room then, shall we,” Sherlock says to Corporal Lyons’s back. 

“Yes, sir,” the Corporal says, turning down the hall to their left. “Right this way.” 

Sherlock surveys the hall as they follow him. Much like the outside, the interior of the building looks like any other non-descript government building; the long, barren and bleak corridors have no trace of personality and are as quiet as a crypt, except for the annoying buzz from the fluorescent lights overhead.

They must swipe again to enter the administrative hall, containing several empty offices and the records room. Sherlock feels an itch of irritation as he stares at the ACCESS GRANTED on the screen. One alert might be ignored or overlooked, but _two_ is sure to catch someone's attention and make its way to Mycroft much more rapidly. 

_Ten minutes until lockdown._

Sure enough, only two minutes later, as they approach the door labeled 'records room,’ a text pings on Sherlock's phone.

> **What are you doing?- M**

Sherlock grimaces and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. There is no response to that question that will avoid Mycroft’s swift and ruthless response. 

“How far back do your records go?” Sherlock asks as he strides into the large, musty, cavernous room with metal shelves holding boxes of documents. 

“All the way back, sir,” replies Corporal Lyons, his now eager stare mostly trained on John, who is eyeing everything with the intensity of a well-practised inspector. “Since the beginning of the base. Twenty years worth of records. We keep excellent records, sir.”

“We'll be the judge of that,” John says, turning his stern gaze on the Corporal again.

“Yes. Of course, sir.”

“Let's test your assertion then, shall we?” Sherlock steps forward, looming over the Corporal in an attempt to be as menacing as John seems to naturally be when he's in _'Captain Watson Mode.’_ The young man only seems to respond well to that kind of demonstration of authority and he will be risking the potential suspicion of the Corporal by speeding things up. He must do this if there is any hope to get what they came here for and get out of here before the net closes in around them. “Pull us a records from fifteen years ago. Everything from the month of May.” 

Corporal Lyons hesitates, obviously thinking it an oddly specific and drastic request, but one glance at John and he snaps to it, striding quickly back among the aisles of shelves in search of the proper records. A firm, “Yes, sir,” trails after him.

Sherlock looks down at the message on his phone. How long will Mycroft tolerate not knowing what he is up to now that he is aware that Sherlock has accessed a secret paramilitary base using his badge? With any luck, in the absence of any data, Mycroft will hesitate to make the call just long enough for them to get what they need and get out.

Sherlock shuffles restlessly, eyes lifting to lock onto Corporal Lyons, who is looking over the shelves as if he has never laid eyes upon a filing system before. He is squinting and mumbling to himself the numbers and letters off the tags as if he is trying to decipher a foreign language. Of course they are stuck with the most idiotic and incompetent of the whole lot of soldiers. This was _not_ the plan. If not for this buffoon, Sherlock would have been able to track down the file himself by now, and they would already be on their way back to 221B. 

Sherlock's takes to pacing back and forth in front of the desk as his thoughts tumble over and over, noisy as rocks in a washing machine. Minutes tick by in an agony of anticipation, like a guillotine slowly lowering. 

As anxious and animated as Sherlock is, it takes him several moments to realise that John has gone very still and turned inward. He is standing in parade rest, his head down, his lips pursed and his eyes dark with apparent grim thoughts as he studies the floor. He's obviously thinking about what happens next if they get caught. It is like a cold bucket of ice being dumped over Sherlock to seriously consider any harm coming to John. 

“John?”

John continues to stare at the floor, lost in deep thought. Sherlock steps closer to him, then tries again. “John?” _Nothing._ “Captain Watson?” 

John's head snaps up at that and he focuses on Sherlock. He's seems mildly confused to find him standing so close. 

“Perhaps you should go wait in the car. I'll handle this.” John blinks in surprise and glances at Corporal Lyons, way back amongst the shelves, before turning a hard gaze on Sherlock again and replying firmly and simply.

“No.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue but John gives him a look that is more than a little _’Captain Watson’_ and that says, quite plainly, that he won't be moved. Sherlock has yet to build a defense against that, so he takes a deep breath, whirls around and turns his irritation on the Corporal. 

“Perhaps before we die of old age, Corporal,” Sherlock growls. 

“Almost got it, sir.”

Another torturous minute and Corporal Lyons finally makes a sound like he has figured something out. He begins pulling things off the shelf. Sherlock exhales in relief, glances down at his own watch again and freezes; his blood running cold. They’ve passed the zero barrier; what Sherlock has calculated to be the most generous estimate of the amount of time it would take for Mycroft to call down the authorities on them. Sherlock looks up at the door, expecting to see a whole brigade bursting through, but there is no sign of the mayhem that should be erupting.

Perhaps he overestimated Mycroft. 

Sherlock turn his eyes back to John with a grin beginning to form on his lips, and just catches John’s eye before all hell breaks loose.

The alarm blares.  
Red lights flash.  
A startled Corporal Lyons falls; taking out half a shelf of assorted boxes.  
Amid the racket, four armed men and an infuriated Major Barrymore flood into the room, shouting and grabbing Sherlock and John to haul them away.


	20. Chapter 20

John groans and pushes his chest into his knees, lifting his bound arms further up behind himself. His shoulder screams in protest at the strain, but he keeps lifting until his hand reaches the back of the chair he’s trussed to. He moves his fingers quickly, urgently, along the cold, metal frame of the chair, searching for a sharp edge or a bolt he can use to cut the zip tie that is binding his wrists together so tightly that bones seem to grate against each other. 

_Nothing._

He grunts in frustration, shifts, and begins feeling along the bottom edge of his seat. The plastic is cutting into his wrists, sweat is prickling on the back of his neck, and he's shaking from the strain. His desperation is building as he watches at the closed door. 

“Best to stop struggling.” Sherlock’s voice from beside John is bland and matter-of-fact.

John's throws his weight sideways and his chair makes a horrid scraping sound over the concrete, as he maneuvers it around enough to glare directly at Sherlock. It is a somewhat wasted effort since Sherlock’s eyes are closed and he seems otherwise oblivious. 

Sherlock is, in fact, in the exact same position that he has been in since they were first shoved into this windowless, cinder block room. With wrists bound behind their back by industrial-strength zip ties, they were forced into these heavy, metal chairs and their ankles were bound to the legs. It's crude but effective. Since that initial manhandling, they've been left alone to stew and John has taken the opportunity to try to find a way to free himself. Meanwhile, Sherlock has been sitting completely still; his back perfectly straight, his eyes closed, and his face as serene as if he were meditating in a relaxing spa.

In other words, Sherlock's not been doing a _damn thing_ to get them out of this mess.

“Sorry. Wouldn't want my efforts to save our lives disturbing your nap. I'll just keep it down, shall I?” John doesn’t make any effort to hide the edge of bitterness in his voice. If Sherlock had given him any say in the matter, he would have told him this was a terrible idea - a suicide mission if ever there was one - but Sherlock had intentionally been tight-lipped about everything. He'd waited until they were knee deep in the snake pit to tell him anything at all. By then, having just infiltrated a secret paramilitary compound, John hadn't really had a choice but to roll with it and try his best to keep it all from blowing up in their faces. 

In the end, his efforts hadn't been enough.

That, as much as anything, is what frustrates John out this mess. It is appalling that he had seen this disaster coming, like a slow motion train wreck, from the moment Sherlock told him to turn off the road onto the dirt path, yet all his efforts to mitigate that disaster had failed. However, even more wretched than that, is that he is painfully aware that the only reason that they are here is because of _him_. It's all his fault. This whole mess is about Mary; he's certain of it. Sherlock is taking this stupid risk to get answers for his past, and knowing that makes John feel like he's about to claw his own skin off is his utter disgust with himself. He has a terrible sense of dread growing within him, as if he is watching his nightmare from last night played out in reality. 

Sherlock is going to get hurt, and there won’t be a damn thing he can do about.

John struggles harder, flexing and straining, seeking some place on his chair that can break the tie around his wrist - not caring what noises he makes or how he's hurting himself in the process.

“You’re overreacting.” The tone is flat; almost bored.

“Overreacting? _Overreacting?_ ” John wants to scream. Instead, he draws on his inner reserve of discipline and lowers his voice. 

“This is _serious,_ Sherlock. These aren't MPs. There aren't rules and regulations to protect us. No due process. They are _paramilitary._ They’re practically bloody _contract killers_. We're lucky they didn't shoot us on the spot. They don't just let civilian's sneak into their _secret_ base for a visit, take a peek at their records, then walk away after _that._ ”

John shoves the binding around his wrists against the frame of the chair more vigorously, thrashing so violently that his metal chair makes a terrible screeching noise as it moves across the cement floor. “So, don't _(*whack*)_ tell me _(*whack*)_ I'm overreacting. _(*whack, whack*)_ I'm reacting _(*whack*)_ like a normal person reacts _(*whack*)_ when they want _(*whack*)_ to stay _(*whack, whack*)_ alive!” John has to stop and rest a moment. The binding have cut into his wrists and he can feel the blood trickling off his fingertips. There's sweat dripping down his face and blurring his vision, and he's panting like an enraged bull. He glares at Sherlock.

He'll save himself and Sherlock, _the bloody idiot,_ no matter if Sherlock likes it or not.

“You’re panicking, John.” 

“I'm not panicking!” John snaps back. He purses his lips and looks away, as the roar of his own frayed voice echoes through the cold, empty room and makes him realise that he _is_ panicking... _A bit._

Right.  
Panicking might not be the most dignified reaction, but it's a reasonable one in these circumstances... and a good bit more productive than Sherlock is being at the moment. John clenches and unclenches his fists. Everything is aching. Why is Sherlock making this so difficult?

“Sherlock, I just need to try-”

“No, John.” Sherlock's eyes pop open and lock on John just as John opens his mouth to argue that if they don't escape now, they might not get another chance; things might only get worse from here on out. Sherlock's intense gaze, full of raw emotion, cuts him to the bone and his words catch in his throat.

“The door is locked. There are no windows or other means of egress. There are no less than three guards outside the door and, besides that, a whole building and base of heavily armed _'contract killers’_ as you call them.” Sherlock’s voice drops a register and becomes rife with tension. “These bindings are nearly unbreakable. You're expending energy unnecessarily; exhausting yourself, and aggregating your shoulder wound in the process. Just. Stop. John,” Sherlock says firmly. 

John blinks and sits back, surprised by Sherlock's intensity and sincere concern. It knocks all the wind out of his blustery fury and reminds him just how remarkable and capable Sherlock is. He’s not just been sitting there, he’s been reasoning it all out, thinking ahead.

“Right,” John says, nodding. He lets out a breath. His head drops forward, and his eyes slide closed. All those awful truths settle on his shoulders. Sherlock's right, of course. He usually is. Even if John manages to get himself unbound, it would take a miracle for them to escape. It makes sense to conserve energy and not damage himself unnecessarily so that he can fight when the time comes  
_If_ it comes. 

John takes another breath in. His shoulders and head sag as he exhales. His anger dissolves into anguished sadness. It feels worse to let that rage go - _so much worse_ \- because it feels like resignation to his helplessness to change this situation. 

“I don't want…” He swallows roughly. “I can't let it end this way, Sherlock.” He looks up at Sherlock, his eyes naked with all the emotions swirling within. “What do I do?”

“Listen.” Sherlock closes his eyes again and tilts his head to the side. John follows suit. Soon he picks out the familiar thump, thump, thump of rotor blades.

“Helicopter?” 

Sherlock nods. There is a darkness to his eyes and he swallows visibly, mouth turning down in a grimace for a second. He is afraid. John is startled to think that there is anything that Sherlock might actually be afraid of, but there can be no mistaking it. John feels that battle calm from his military days slip over him.

“Dangerous?” 

“Extremely.” There's a hollowness to Sherlock's voice again, like he's purposely emptied any nuance of emotion out of it. “The most dangerous man you've ever met and the only person you should _truly_ be afraid of right now.”

“Right.” John shuffles his chair around until it faces the door more squarely. He fixes his stare on the door once more. Priority number one, keep, Sherlock safe. “Plan?”

“I’ve only seen him bested once…” Sherlock drawls, his voice taking on a strange tone. “And I hardly think attacking his ankle and stealing his umbrella will work a second time.”

“Right,” John is nodding without even registering the words; too distracted with considering his very limited options for fighting. Seconds after the automatic agreement leaves his mouth, Sherlock's words are processed and confusion explodes across his brain. “Wait, what?” he whips his head around and stares at Sherlock in confusion. 

“While I certainly wouldn't mind the reenactment, having only witnessed the aftermath of the original incident, we've lost the element of surprise and I'm certain Mycroft has adapted to Percy's tactics.” Sherlock’s gaze meets John's and his lips twitch up in poorly contained amusement. The glint of dark humour dancing across his features is the most beautifully absurd thing John has ever seen. 

He's made a joke?  
At a moment like _this?_

John barks a shocked laugh. Then Sherlock's grin grows into something almost smug for having evoked John's laughter - and John loses it altogether. When the door swings open, he’s doubled over, giggling, well aware of how inappropriate it is in a situation like this, but unable to stop himself because Sherlock is laughing too. 

John lifts his head and immediately sobers when he finds a huge, hulking man in a nice suit, (that's certainly _not_ Mycroft) blocking the entire doorway. His chest is as solid and broad as a fridge, and his arms are as thick as John's thigh. John sits back in his chair and swallows. It takes only a second to gather up his courage and brace himself for the pain of a good beating from those ham hock fists. Then, he narrows his eyes, leans forward and plunges in.

“Alright then, come on,” John lifts his chin. Best to draw the man’s ire away from Sherlock, who will inevitably know how to irritate the man. “Scraping the bottom of the barrel with you, aren’t they?” 

The enormous man merely lifts an eyebrow to acknowledge the challenge. His eyes sweep coldly over them as he lumbers forward and then moves to the side, revealing Mycroft in his crisp, gray suit, looking both bored and irritate. 

“I would say so,” Sherlock puts in dryly in response to John's statement. John ducks his head to hide the fact that he can’t help but snicker again. “And no umbrella, how _telling,_ ” Sherlock continues in a stage whisper. John loses his tenuous restraint on his laughter and doubles over in giggles. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Mycroft asks as he strides into the room, looking around with a faint air of disgust. At that, Sherlock's amusement evaporates.

“I've had worse accommodations.” His voice is frigid and John recognizes the hurt behind Sherlock's words. There's a pointed accusation in this that John can't discern; some history between the brothers that is still raw and bitter. 

“Indeed.” Mycroft's dispassionate gaze shifts to John. “You've caused me quite a bit of... _inconvenience.”_

“Interrupt your meal, did we?” Sherlock cuts in. “Not that you couldn't stand to skip a few.” There's a malicious hook to Sherlock’s smile. Mycroft stares at Sherlock a long moment and John recognizes the familiar expression of facts being gathered and processed at lightning speed. His eyes dart to John for only a second, then back to Sherlock with a tilt to his eyebrows that speaks of having drawn a surprising conclusion from Sherlock interjecting himself. 

“ _Meeting,_ actually,” Mycroft finally says, lifting his chin. “Rather difficult to disengage from.” 

“Mmm. Explains the delay, or perhaps you're just getting _slow._ ”

Mycroft's forced smile is something between a sneer and a grimace. “Old age. Comes to us all, brother mine.” His stare is pointed. “Remind me again, at what age does one learn that stealing is wrong?”

“I would think around the same age as one learns not to _murder._ ” Sherlock glares at Mycroft with such and fiery accusation that John is momentarily grateful that Sherlock is bound to the chair or there would surely be blood shed. 

Mycroft spreads his hands and lifts his chin, “Regardless, this is not your usual malefaction, Sherlock. It isn't a case of light fingers that can be smoothed over with a generous gift or a bit of strategic application of pressure. Such a transgression will be no small matter to clean up.”

“You know why we've come. Where is she?”

“She?”

“Mary Morstan. It's all been rather obvious.”

“Obvious?”John says, the wind nearly knocked out of him by the possibility that Sherlock has somehow worked out what has happened to Mary. A flicker of sadness and regret crosses Sherlock’s face as he meets John’s stare and shakes his head back and forth, before he turns a cold glare back on Mycroft.

“Mysteriously disappeared not a hundred meters from your secret paramilitary base. File suddenly finds its way from the cold cases to Lestrade’s desk just days after John moves in. The badge you conveniently failed to report. This whole thing has your slimy fingerprints all over it. In fact, I would say this, _us - here_ \- is precisely what _you_ planned.”

There is a briefest flicker of surprise on Mycroft’s face before he smooths it into something patronizing and vaguely amused. “Such paranoia. You really do have some absurd misconceptions of my ambit and animus.” He folds his hands behind his back and slowly strolls towards the opposite wall. 

“The danger of making leaps of intuition, Sherlock, is that in lieu of a thoughtful analysis, one is prone to being unduly influenced by emotion. Facts are twisted to suit theories. Parallelism becomes pattern. Coincidences become conspiracies.” He sighs dramatically, his fingers drumming against his wrist as he stares at the wall. “Your pursuit of this case brings troublesome disruption that I could do without.” He turns to them and his next words are sharp with command. 

“To be clear, this can go _no further._ I will clean up this mess and see to your freedom, but you will not pursue the matter. The case is closed. Mary Morstan is dead. She died a long time ago. There is nothing more to be gained by poking the hornet's nest.”

 _‘Mary Morstan is dead.’_ The words ring in John’s ears and he blinks and blinks at Mycroft in shock, not sure how he is supposed to feel but certain he should feel _something_ with this revelation.

“You don’t believe in coincidence,” Sherlock’s voice is so tight it is fraying, like it takes every ounce of control for him to hold it steady. “And you forget, I’m the only one who knows what you’re _really_ like, _brother._ I know that you’re at your most lyrical when you’re lying.” He leans forward, every inch of him straining with fury, each word sharp. “Where. Is. She?”

“I am telling you to drop this right now, Sherlock. There is no case here.”

“Where. Is. She?” A measure louder.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs, “It’s over.”

“Where. Is. She?” 

“You're meddling in things beyond your scope.”

“John _is_ my scope,” Sherlock roars. The words ring in the air, startling in their force and conviction. John looks over at Sherlock, stunned speechless by the declaration. Mycroft seems equally taken off guard. 

“We will see this through to the end. If you don't intend to make yourself useful, then _leave._ ” 

Mycroft steps forward and studies Sherlock. “Is that really what you want?” 

John blinks himself out of his shock and takes in the situation. The brothers are staring unflinchingly at each other and he can feel the frigid tension between them; stubbornness and pride equally matched. He watches closely as Sherlock’s seething disgust and barely-contained fury meets Mycroft stoic and frosty demeanor; like fire meeting ice. John can see it coming - can see that Mycroft is going to call Sherlock's bluff and walk away. 

“Yes,” Sherlock growls 

“No!” John barks at the same time.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock turn to look at John, surprise writ large on their features. John keeps his eyes locked on Mycroft. He knows Sherlock won't like what he's going to do next - may hate him for it, in fact - but he knows what will happen to Sherlock if he stays here without Mycroft’s protection. Beaten. Tortured. Killed. John can’t let that happen.

“Take Sherlock.” He speaks rapidly, voice edged with desperate demand. “Take him with you. I'll take the fallout for this. It's my fault we're even here. You don't care for me - don't want me around him. This is your chance. This is me out of the picture.” John hears the sharp inhale from Sherlock and there is nothing but stunned silence settling all around them. Even Mycroft looks astounded for a moment.

“ _Why_ would I want to do _that?_ ” Mycroft says slowly as he steps closer to John. His eyes are narrowed, sharp and predatory, like a falcon sighting a mouse. John sits up straighter but refuses to look away. He sticks his chin out and steels himself.

“He's your brother. Think - think how upset _Mummy_ will be if you leave him.” John feels ridiculous even saying the word _Mummy_ at his age, but he knows that's what Mycroft called their mother before, and he's not above a little blunt manipulation if it spares Sherlock. “If he gets tortured... _killed..._ she’d be _very_ upset.” John can feel Sherlock's stare burning into the side of his face, but he refuses to look at him.

“Doctor Watson… or should I call you _Captain_ Watson? Yes... the bravery of a soldier.” He smiles faintly, lifting his chin to look down his nose at John. “Bravery; by far the kindest term for _stupidity_... You are aware what they'll do to you?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growls a warning but Mycroft ignores him.

“Right. Yeah, I know.” John wets his dry lips. He swallows down his pride and nods. Mycroft can berate him all he likes, just as long as he takes Sherlock out of this place. “Just an idiot that stole your badge and broke into this base to find information on my missing wife... Just me. _No one_ else, yeah?” He looks over at Sherlock, his expression stern and his voice commanding. “And there’ll be no reason to pursue her case without me, right?” 

His projection of absolute authority falls flat when Sherlock's eyes meet his. John had expected his efforts to save Sherlock to be met with anger, outrage, maybe indignation or even contempt. He could handle any of that from Sherlock, but he's can’t handle what he now sees; Sherlock looking utterly devastated. His eyes are liquid sheened and a little wild, stripped naked by emotion. They dart over John and his whole expression says he's overwhelmed and confused. 

“No.” The word is fierce but broken, demanding that John not to do this. 

John's not sure how to respond to that - the desperation and anguish. He swallows and looks down at his own lap for a moment, chest aching. He has to get a grip on himself. He has to do this. It's a little emotional pain now to spare Sherlock a lot of physical pain and death. There's nothing else for it.

John forces himself to look at Mycroft without hiding a thing. He knows that, if Mycroft is anything like Sherlock, he'll only see everything he’s trying to hide anyways. So he lets his raw affection for Sherlock and genuine fear of him being harmed burn, unfiltered and unguarded, in his eyes. He feels the tears welling up but he doesn't disguise them. 

There is a hint of intrigue in Mycroft's calculating gaze as he studies John for a long moment.

“So be it.” Mycroft lifts his eyes to the large man in the corner and gives a small nod, then turns his back. 

The man steps forward. Grabs Sherlock's chair. Tips it. Arms bound; there’s nothing Sherlock can do. No way to fight. He falls forward without a means to save himself. The man catches Sherlock by the wrists, only centimeters before his face hits the floor. An inventive string of insults spills from Sherlock. He's squirming; face twisted in pain. 

“Hey! Hey! Let him go!” John throws his weight around to move his chair. It scoots a little distance but they're too far apart. He’s desperate. Needs to do something - _anything_. Has to stop the man from hurting Sherlock. “No. Hey, you ugly bastard. Get me. Come on. It's me you want.” 

The man's dark eyes lock on John. He flips open a knife and an evil grin spreads over his lips. The world lurches. John throws himself forward.

“Sherlock!” John's chair tips. Arms bound behind his back, he can’t catch himself. His head smacks on the concrete. The world goes blurry and red on the edges. He manages to lift himself enough to see Sherlock pushing off the ground. The man stands at Sherlock's feet, cutting the ties that bind his legs to the chair. As soon as he's free, Sherlock scrambles towards John. Cool hands slide to cup John’s face. John lets his eyes slip closed, relaxing into the touch. 

_He’s not hurt. He’s not hurt. He’s not hurt._  
The words throb at his temple in time with his heartbeat.

“Cut him loose, you subhuman waste of space! Quickly!” Sherlock sounds panicked, completely undone.

John feels the tension around his wrists snap free and he groans. The strained muscles in his shoulders scream a protest at being allowed to relax and the cuts on his wrist burn anew. Then each ankle is freed from its binding to the chair legs and the weight of the chair is pulled away. 

“John? John?” Sherlock cradles his head as he rolls him to his back, pulling John's head into his lap. John forces his eyes open and sees Sherlock’s face staring down at him in triplicate and swimming together, all of them with wide eyes full of worry. John tries to smile reassuringly, but can’t quite focus his thoughts or his eyes. He feels a bit drunk.

“Are you ok, John?” 

“Um… yeah,” John blinks up at him. “Just a bit… _mullered._ ” John tries to laugh but it gets cut short as everything tilts and tips, making him woozy. He presses his eyes closed until the world settles again. “Concussed,” he concludes. 

“Your head’s bleeding quite a lot.” Sherlock's hand flutters at John's temple. Now that John focuses on it, he can feel the warm trickle over his right temple and into his hair.

“Mmm… Right.” John tries to lift a hand to where his forehead pulses with pain but Sherlock catches it and sets it back down on his chest. 

“Don't touch.” Sherlock turns a heated glare on Mycroft and extends a hand. “Handkerchief,” he demands. 

“It’s imported silk.” Mycroft’s voice is haughty and laced with indignation. 

“You’ve caused this,” Sherlock growls, glaring at him. His hand is still out. After a moment staring at each other, Mycroft places the handkerchief in Sherlock’s hand and, with a sniff of irritation, walks away again. Then soft, cool fabric is being pressed to John’s head. John winces then reaches up to slide his hand over top of Sherlock's, encouraging him to press down harder to stop the bleeding.

“Looks worse than it is,” he tries to reassure when he recognises a frantic edge to Sherlock's expression. “Head wounds always do. Bleed a lot… You’re alright?” 

Sherlock blinks and draws back, as if surprised by the question. “Of course.” His face tightens with anger. “Mycroft’s sadistic streak and penchant for the dramatic apparently extends to the meatheaded morons he hires.” 

John chuckles and feels grateful when the world doesn't tilt and whirl this time. 

“Right. Think I can sit up now.” He lets Sherlock's hand slip from under his and he continues hold the handkerchief in place as he carefully sits up. Sherlock's hand is a steadying force pressed to the center of his back. When he's righted, they both lock eyes on Mycroft.

“Satisfied?” Sherlock hisses. John turns a questioning gaze on Sherlock, confused what he is implying. Sherlock must sense the question but continues to glare contemptuously at Mycroft. “Mycroft derives perverse pleasure from enacting these sort of torturous spectacles as a means of driving off anyone who dares to associate with me,” he explains, his voice harsh with animosity.

“Merely evaluating worthiness,” Mycroft corrects evenly. 

“It was a test?” John asks, narrowing his eyes and trying to focus on Mycroft

“I saw an opportunity,” Mycroft's voice and stare is cool and unapologetic. When John scoffs at the nerve of it, Mycroft sighs as if put-upon by their inability to see the big picture.

“You must understand, Dr. Watson, corrupting influences are always a concern. My initial attempt to measure your loyalty by less _intensive_ means was interrupted. It is vitally important that your investment in Sherlock's safety can be relied upon.” He steps forward and pulls a flash drive from the breast pocket of his suit. His eye narrow on Sherlock. “If you choose to pursue this, Sherlock, I won't be able to protect you. There are some places that my influence does not reach.” He holds out the drive.

Sherlock doesn't move, just stares at the drive, so John reaches out and swipes it from Mycroft's hand. “And where might that be?” He asks turning the drive over and running his fingers over the letters scrawled in black marker on one side.

“America.” His eyes linger on Sherlock before he turns away and strolls across the room, hands in his pockets as if this is the most casual conversation. “At least that’s where our best intelligence last placed her.” He lifts eyebrows at the large man that has resumed his place in the corner and the man snatches up one of the metal chairs and places it next to Mycroft before retreating to his post once more. Mycroft visually inspects the chair a moment before seating himself primly with legs crossed and hands folded on his lap, facing John and Sherlock. 

“I was telling the truth when I said Mary Morstan is dead. More precisely, she was technically _never alive._ An identity stolen from a stillborn infant. The woman who attempted to betrothe herself to you has gone by many names. Her true identity is, perhaps, known only to her. The records have been thoroughly and skillfully expurgated. All that we do know is on there.” He tips his head towards the drive in John's hand. 

John swallows and stares down at the memory device. He can't really process this in his current state. His head throbs and his thoughts feel like molasses, sluggishly sloshing around in his head, but he has to focus - he isn't likely to get another chance to ask questions. 

“A.G.R.A.?” He lifts his eyes from the drive to Mycroft. 

“An acronym. All the best secret societies have one. In this case, her employer - or _former_ employer. She has, shall we say, gone off the reservation. Freelance.” Mycroft leans forward, his eyes run over Sherlock, who is staring at a spot on the floor in front of him in a way that says he's retreated into his own mind. John recognises that look from when he first told him that Mary was his wife. Mycroft must recognise it too because he doesn't bother to speak to Sherlock anyone but instead directs everything at John. 

“It is imperative that you use extreme caution. The woman who called herself Mary Morstan is unquestionably dangerous. However, there are more people than just _you two_ looking for her. MI6, CIA, FBI, SVR RF, RAW and countless other acronyms you're unlikely to have heard of. She has left a long trail of cold and calculated carnage and everyone that is anyone wants her... dead or alive. All of these are _professional killers_ who will not hesitate to use you or my brother for their own objectives, or eliminate both of you if they should perceive you to stand in their way.” 

John looks over at Sherlock. “What he said earlier… he thinks you're behind this - you dug this up and gave the file to Lestrade. You set this up. That true?” 

“Not to the extent he thinks.” Mycroft sighs and sits back in the chair. “He does tend to vilify me to _extremes.”_

“Not sure it isn't deserved,” John mutters, drawing the handkerchief from his head and examining it to determine if he's stopped bleeding. There's still a small spot of fresh blood. Another minute or two should do it. He presses it back to his head and gives Mycroft a hard look. 

“Your reaction to the appearance of Sherlock in danger was an unknown variable,” Mycroft says lifting his eyebrows and spreading his hands as if to plead some measure of innocence. “While I am now suitably convinced that our priorities are aligned when it comes to Sherlock and his safety, it does not change the risk you pose to that very thing.” He leans forward again. 

“You are a liability, Dr. Watson. Ignorant as you may have been to the true nature of the woman you attempted to make your bride, inevitably, you would have been pulled into the efforts to locate her and exploited as a potential pressure point. They have tried with others from her past; all dead now. She is, of course, unmoved by such things. Still, past failure does not preclude future success - they would invariably try again with you. It was only the lack of clear records about your relationship and your inaccessibility, fighting in Afghanistan, that protected you thus far. 

“Sherlock was not the only one watching you following your return to London. As it was, several interested parties were closing in on you. The risk of destruction you unwittingly brought to Sherlock's doorstep was reason enough to surface the issue. However, in doing so, there were many likely outcomes; your infiltration of this base was not among them.” Mycroft's smile is thin and uncomfortable. Clearly his previous statement about the trouble caused by John and Sherlock getting caught using his badge to get into a secret paramilitary base was not a complete lie. 

He sighs and looks at the floor a moment. When his eyes return to John his expression is almost wistful. 

“Like it or not, it is clear to me that you have emotional significance to Sherlock. You are currently a stabilising force. However, your loss... could be _catastrophic._ ” His eyes turn on Sherlock, who still appears catatonic. “In matters of the _mind,_ my brother is virtually un-matched, save myself. However, it has always been clear to me that in certain matters of the heart he is... _untested..._ and coping with extreme emotionality, as you can see, is frequently beyond his capacity ” He gestures towards Sherlock. 

“Right,” John says looking at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes are distant but his brow is furrowed and John can't help but wonder what he's thinking and what he will have worked out by the time he returns. 

Mycroft rises smoothly to his feet and straightens his suit. “When Sherlock comes back to himself, knock on the door and Corporal Lyons will escort you out of the compound." 

Mycroft's eyes shift to the large man in the corner and he steps up to the door, ready to open it. Mycroft begins to stride towards it but stops and looks back towards John and Sherlock, his expression drawn and dark as he takes in the two of them. 

“Take care of my baby brother, John... He's not as strong as he thinks he is.” 

With that, Mycroft and the enormous bodyguard leave them. 


	21. Chapter 21

John doesn't remember the drive back to Baker Street, but he thinks he can recall being helped into the back seat of the rental, Sherlock sliding in next to him, and a silent twenty-something-year-old kid efficiently returning them to the flat. He regains a fuzzy awareness as they are halfway up the stairs. Sherlock has his arm wrapped around his waist, somehow managing to keep his balance as he maneuvers them both upward.

"Wha - where - why does my head hurt?"

" _Walking,_ in theory. Though for your part it's been mostly _dragging._ Halfway up the stairs to our flat. And your head hurts because my brother is a menace and you are an idiot. No matter how gallant you thought you were being, there wasn't -"

"Shhhhh. Too many words."

"Sorry." 

"'Tis 'kay." John leans into Sherlock's side, obviously enjoying the closeness. They make it up the last five steps and into the flat only to be met by an extremely displeased kitten.

"Perce! It's okay. I just need to sit fer a sec, then I'll..." John mumbles, trailing off as he makes a weak gesture towards the kitchen. He allows Sherlock to help him out of his jacket and shoes, then lower him onto the couch. "Jus' need to sleep... So tired." John starts to slowly topple over to lying but suddenly jerks back up, eyes snapping open and looking around. "Perce-"

"I'll take care of him." Sherlock gently pushes John over until he's lying down. John puts up no resistance, eyes already closed once again. "I'll need to wake you in two hours due to the concussion," Sherlock murmurs as he drapes a blanket over him. John hums his understanding, but it's clear he's already more than halfway asleep. Sherlock leans over him a moment, studying the relaxed lines of John's face. He resists the urge to run a finger over the plaster on John's forehead, the evidence of John's awe-inspiring actions when faced with Sherlock in peril.

"All hail the conquering hero," he says mostly to himself, shaking his head back and forth.

"Very funny." John mutters grumpily without opening his eyes, obviously thinking Sherlock is teasing him.

"John, I..." Sherlock hesitates, struggling to find a way to put into words the frustrating muddle of feelings he has over the fact that John would risk everything and lay down his life for _him,_ of all people. However, only a few seconds later, John lets out a rattling snort and it's clear he is fast asleep. Sherlock sighs and gazes at John for a long moment, until an annoyed huff from Percy brings him back from his thoughts.

"Yes, yes, dinner. Right. No curried chicken this time." He walks into the kitchen, then makes his way to the cabinet where they keep tins of food for Percy. He finds a can of tuna and just barely has time to open it and dump it onto a clean plate before Percy leaps onto the counter and attacks his food, as if he hadn't eaten in days rather than a few hours. Sherlock shakes his head and scratches the kitten between the ears. Percy is purring as he devours the food, as if it is the most delicious feast he's ever consumed. Sherlock finds himself grinning at the realisation that, as many peculiar personality traits as the precocious kitten shares with him, Percy's enthusiasm for food is squarely in keeping with John's personality. There is something soothing to that - to think that this one creature, with qualities of both of them, could be so dearly loved by them both. 

He walks back over to the couch and drops down to sit next to it. John's arm is dangling over the side, and he can't help but take John's hand and hold it gingerly in both of his own. He wonders at the size difference between them, and how the feeling of John's warmth radiates from him, even at rest. He thinks about bodies - these fragile transport vessels made of flesh and blood - and how John can manage to contain so much within such little space. So much heart, so much fire, and so much strength, wrapped up in layers and layers of personality - compressed so tightly in order to fit, that he's nearly bursting with it all. He thinks of atomic matter, of energy, and the super-dense matter of neutron stars. When he realises his thoughts are rambling, failing to make much logical sense, he recognises that he must be much more tired than he'd ever think he could be having slept so soundly the previous night. For once, he is actually exhausted in the midst of a case. He rolls his eyes at himself, pulls out his phone, and sets the alarm just shy of two hours - just in case he drifts off to sleep. 

Sherlock cradles John's hand in his own and focuses on the map of lines in his palm. He traces the broken love line; so many starts, so many endings. Again he wonders at the man who shifts on the couch and mutters under his breath, "can't let them hurt him... can't... stop..." then there's another snort, and he's silent again. 

Sherlock doesn't necessarily believe in palmistry. He had studied it once for a case where he had been trying to determine which circus performer had disposed of a lion tamer. He eventually found that the palm reader was using her talent to be a rather shrewd manipulator of those around her. It seemed palmistry was more a matter of psychology than a hard and precise science. No matter what the palm reader said, if the customer believed in the power of such predictions, it became a fact, more or less. If you believed you would have a short life because of a crease in your hand, or that you would have _one true love_ just because your love line was unbroken, it was probably true. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy for those who believed in it. Your belief would drive your actions, and your actions would manifest that belief into your reality. He gets lost in his thoughts again, as he considers what such things mean for him and John. Like a cat chasing its own tail, his thoughts keep circling around how beliefs limit and shape a person - how they drive actions, and how the actions then manifest belief into reality. 

He brings John's hand closer and looks at the life line, nearly as jagged as the one for love. He wonders at John's strength - how he managed to last until the day that Sherlock showed up at his doorstep with Percy and only a desperate hope that that beautiful, broken man Sherlock has been watching from afar could find something worth loving, and living for, in a half-wild, mangy stray gifted to him by a stranger. He blinks himself out of his racing thoughts when his phone vibrates on the floor next to him. He looks up to see John staring back at him curiously. Startled, he sucks in a breath and guiltily drops John's hand.

"Sorry - I -"

"It's fine. It's all fine, Sherlock," John whispers and his smile conveys they he is grateful for the gesture, but that he is aware of how cautious they must be with such affection.

Sherlock blinks at him and nods his understanding. He gently scoops up John's dangling hand again and considers John's it for a few seconds more. Then he brings the hand to his lips and kisses the most shattered bit of John's love line; part apology for all the hurt he's caused John, and part 'thank you' to John for giving him this moment, and all the beautiful moments that came before that he had never expected to share with anyone. He clears his throat. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yeah, tea would be nice," John's voice is watery and, with a glance, Sherlock confirms that his eyes are as well. He acts as of he hasn't seen this as he nods and rises to his feet. He turns to walk to the kitchen but John stops him by reaching out and taking his hand. "Sherlock... Thank you."

Sherlock stands very still a moment, trying to gather himself up so he can turn his eyes back on John and have what promises to be a difficult conversation. When he looks down at John a half minute later, he finds John's eyes have slid closed. John's hand falls limply to the couch and Sherlock realises he has fallen asleep again. Everything in him wants to sit on the couch with John and simply be with him as he sleeps. He wants to observe him more closely, and learn everything there is to know about the man. He wants to savour every bit of him and commit it to memory before he's gone forever. It aches and gnaws at him, this need to fill himself up with every bit of John he can possibly absorb. He wonders when it happened; when did John become a _person_ instead of a _puzzle?_ When did it become necessary for Sherlock to have John in his life - to make John _stay?_ He can't imagine life without John now, which is horrible to consider, because, more than likely, he won't have any choice but to live without him soon.

He forces himself to not reach for John - to walk away. He is walking into the kitchen to plug in the tea kettle when he receives a text from a restricted number. The only message is a line of numbers. There is nothing to indicate who the sender is, though he thinks he has a decent idea. Right then he knows this case, _John's case_ has just become darker and decidedly more dangerous than he could have ever suspected. 

He plugs in the kettle, drops onto a kitchen chair, and gets lost in his thoughts once again. He isn't roused from them until the kettle screams. As he gets to his feet and switches it off, he is aware of the next steps he has to take, _correction,_ that _they_ have to take. There is only one course of action that will see them survive the next few days. 


End file.
